The Education of Mycroft Holmes
by Rector
Summary: A romance. A man. A woman. Arguments, skulduggery, snipers, kidnapping, car-chases, tea-drinking and (possibly) a happy ending. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:**

This is a non-profit piece of indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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**The Education of Mycroft Holmes**

_**Chapter One:**_

_A Domestic Scene - The Accra Directive – A British Gentleman – After Dark –Spies Like Us – A Murder in London – The Professor Speaks – Bad Brother, Good Brother – A Balkan Connection – George – Another World – The Sensualist – A Friend is Needed. _

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The light in the large kitchen was dim, but bright enough for him to see what he was doing. Softly whistling a few bars of Saint-Saëns' _Dies Irae_, Mycroft Holmes threw a handful of chopped basil into the skillet of simmering prawns. The resulting wisp of fragrance made him whistle a little louder. It had been a while since he had the luxury of cooking anything, let alone his _Crevettes roses d'ail_.

Opening the sleek steel refrigerator on the far side of the hob, he selected a white Bordeaux, comfortably chilled, and reminded himself of the Chateau. Pouring an apéritif, Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily as the crisp Haut-Brion melted across his palate and warmed his belly. Working long days and seemingly endless nights, it was easy to forget the simple delights of the table. Blessing his housekeeper for her prescience, Mycroft tore off a chunk of her freshly-made bread and dipped it into the pan's creamy sauce. His eyebrow twitched. If Sherlock saw him now, he'd never hear the end of his brother's scorn. His younger sibling derided any pedestrian need for planned sustenance in favour of a more aesthetic lifestyle consisting in the most part of caffeine and Asian takeaways. Ah well. To each their own.

Eschewing the formality of the dining table, Mycroft brought pan and glass to a granite-topped bar equipped with high, leather-clad chairs. Pulling the day's broadsheet into the light, he turned immediately to the world news section scanning the article headings for any mention of his most recent problem. Lifting his glass, the wine's discreet but irrepressible perfume almost distracted him from the minor paragraph well below the fold. "Industrialist Accused". Mycroft read the scant few lines with rising irritation. Could these people do nothing right? Refusing to have his much-anticipated dinner tainted by the follies of idiots and incompetents, he threw the paper aside and whisked a fork deftly from a drawer of its brethren to impale a prawn.

It was only later, lounging in his preferred chesterfield, when the glorious dissonance of Baroque was accompanied by the last of the bordeaux, that Mycroft made a small moue of frustration. Was he the only one who saw what was about to happen? Dominos rarely fell in isolation, and the stakes were terribly high. An entire functioning network, established over several long years, was suddenly in peril. Surely there were others among his echelon who had the facility to anticipate the obvious. Feeling every one of his forty-six years, Mycroft searched internally for the wherewithal to handle yet another crisis. Long-schooled in the high art of autonomous expediency, he had almost forgotten there were alternatives. But he was too old to change, and, in any case, if something worked, reform was scarcely necessary. Mycroft had told himself all these things for so many years that he barely recognised it as catechism. Pressing hands against his eyes to stem a growing ache, he accepted that he could do little more without sleep, although, much like Sherlock, he had long governed himself into an ability to remain wakeful and alert for extended periods. But tonight, he needed sleep if he were to tackle the Accra situation in the morning. Making a mental note of the time-difference between London and Ghana, Mycroft set his internal alarm for six in the morning.

Pale sunlight drew long fingers on dark linen as he stirred. Allowing himself a momentary laze before throwing back the duvet, Mycroft sighed as memory returned and he headed for the bathroom. The pristine vista of cool tile, glass and chrome did little to lift his mood. Brushing his teeth, he wondered if he needed to think about modernising the décor, perhaps add some colour. Yet why bother? This house had been his address and refuge for many years and alteration seemed both unnecessary and a waste of what brief time he had beyond the confines of his work. Always the work. Another connection he shared with Sherlock – it seemed they both had addictive personalities where their 'work' was involved. At least his brother had John Watson to knock some sense into him when required. Mycroft sometimes envied Sherlock that one simple advantage. Having someone sufficiently objective to offer clarity, yet close enough to lend genuine support, was indeed a beneficial arrangement, and one that Mycroft occasionally - _occasionally - _coveted.

His mind already shuttling through a variety of data, he wondered, in passing if this current existence were to be his entire life. After the _affaire_ with the Adler woman, he recalled advising Sherlock that nothing was permanent; nothing was safe, and it was better to avoid entanglements entirely than to reap the inevitably miserable harvest. In this, Mycroft's conviction had not changed, and he felt well-suited to a bachelor's lifestyle. Yet _sometimes_, in the hollow hours of the night, or in the dappled light of a Sunday afternoon, he wondered. But no: caring was never an advantage. Not to him.

And there was no time this morning to bemoan the absence of camaraderie. In the coming furore, he would have to rely, as always, upon his own wits and ingenuity.

Selecting his standard fare of an Anderson & Sheppard double pinstripe in a dark grey flannel, Mycroft twisted some heavy silver links through his cuffs and paired a tie of burgundy to a pocket square of mixed but similar hues. One needed to look sharp whenever international conflict was a possibility. As long as gentlemen dressed accordingly, it gave the British a belief that all would be well. Foolish, of course, but important in these dark days, to leverage whatever advantage might be obtained from even the smallest of things. By the time he had gathered up his briefcase and umbrella, the black Jaguar was waiting quietly in the morning mist, ready to ease him through the early city traffic.

###

They had come after dark. The wind dropped, so that even the normal sound of rustling tree-branches was absent in the moonless night. The noise from the soldiers in the next valley had echoed louder than before, and then the guns had flashed their message of death and hell arrived in Petranovka.

House after house became little more than flying shards of terror. Screams of people, hunted by lights and bullets blended with the scream of artillery: Leysa no longer cared. Everyone around her was dead. She wanted to wail in solovjina mova, she wanted to sit and rub ashes in her hair, but there was no time. They were coming.

And then she found the children.

A tiny whimper from Ionna, no more than three years in this world, and beside her, the baby brother that all had seen as the new growth of the family. He had been so welcomed. Now both were alone. Everyone was dead. Except for her. At sixteen, Leysa was the only adult left. Picking up the infant, taking the girl by the hand, she scuttled down into the pigs' cellar. Though noisome, it was built partly below ground – the only house in the village to have such a thing. Squatting in the mud and mire, next to the silent animals, Leysa Michelenko prayed to the Holy Mother to protect her.

###

His office was similar to a handful of others in one wing of a reasonably anonymous Portland stone building – itself, one of dozens scattered around Whitehall. Carpeted in dark wool and interspersed with heavy, brass-hung doors, the entire place spoke of serious people in serious dealings. Secret proceedings. Proceedings that might never be mentioned beyond these very solid walls. Mycroft's usual deprecation of his role as a 'minor' public official made light of his actual job, which, effectively, was to anticipate Things That Might Go Wrong. Anywhere. In anything connected to a British sovereign interest. And then, of course, the trick was to prevent such things happening. This task demanded an extraordinary dataset, analytical acumen, cold-blooded thinking, and, to put it in the vernacular, street-smarts. In addition to gladiatory chess skills, both he and Sherlock had inherited massive intellect and intelligence from their mother. Neither was sure where the ruthlessness came from, although the brothers privately believed their mother had a hand in that too.

There were only two phones on his desk, plus his personal Blackberry. His predecessor had maintained an entire phalanx of the things marshalled along the leading edge of a Victorian monstrosity more resembling an aircraft carrier than a desk, shouting the man's insecurities to any who cared to notice. Mycroft favoured a more minimalist approach, believing that less was indeed less. The fewer personal insights he offered the world, the fewer risks he ran. Thus his office was more space than content; more shadow than illuminate. It was simply a place to conduct private conversations: a locus of connectivity. Nothing more. No personal photographs, no favourite books or journals. He permitted a couple of glass lamps and a rather charming bonsai in a Delft bowl, but even they were more a nod to art than personal expression.

"Come in, Stenton," he said.

The door opened easily, admitting a fair-haired man wearing a slight smile.

"One day, Mycroft," he said, "one day, I'm going to work out how you manage to do that."

Mycroft's face was the image of innocence as he waved his younger colleague to a chair. Discerning who was about to knock at his office door was a simple matter of pressure and tread – it was child's play to memorise the usual suspects, as it were. The addition of a strategically located nanocam in the lintel, made the task even simpler. Mycroft adored the new technologies, although many of his compatriots still considered them outlandish toys, or worse, something the French might use.

Michael Stenton had worked in his office for more than seven years. Over this time, Mycroft had been steadily preparing the man for higher things. He was very nearly ready; it lacked only the proper opportunity.

"Did you see this, Michael?" he asked, handing the folded paper over.

"Yes. Damnable luck."

"Luck, damnable or otherwise, had nothing to do with it," Mycroft countered. "It's sheer negligence on the part of our friends across the pond."

Working closely with the security services of every NATO signatory had advantages and disadvantages. While most members shared a common view of security objectives, each of them had quite distinct ideas on their achievement. Despite multiple assurances of every kind, vested interests kept getting in the way of any real progress. And now it had come home to roost. The entire undertaking was a colossal debacle, and part of the mess was heading his way. Mycroft was perturbed by the fact that one of his intermediaries, a wealthy businessman, had been detained in the Ghanaian capital, ostensibly under the purview of the Americans. It was a particularly aggravating event, and one that Langley should have been equally keen to avoid. If neither position or money _or_ the Americans could protect his people, then there was little else that could. Of course, there was always the option of commissioning physical force via quasi-military specialists, but Mycroft felt this lacked panache and bordered on the excessive. The CIA had been particularly keen upon the industrialist's involvement and Mycroft, given the incredibly untroubled manner in which the man had been neutralised and detained, suspected an agenda at least four levels deep. Rank ineptitude was possibly the least of the issues he'd have to deal with.

"Odd, the Americans didn't hold up their end of the operation." Stenton frowned. "I thought they were the ones most interested in securing the route?"

"In hindsight, I believe our colonial colleagues lacked the slightest intention to do so," Mycroft shook his head. "And now it will be left to us to secure the man's release, amidst what will undoubtedly be a media circus, probably arranged by Langley," he made a face. "Emergency protocols require such tedious amounts of paperwork."

"But what have they to gain?" Stenton said. "Surely it's as much in their interests to have this thing kept under wraps, as it is ours?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, about to analogise CIA operations with left- and right-hands not knowing what was happening to the other, when the nearest phone rang.

"Yes," he said, listening "I'll be there directly."

Turning to his colleague, Mycroft gave a thin smile. "Our friend will have to cool his heels in gaol a little longer," he said. "Scotland Yard may have accidently landed on the London end of our Balkan connection." Another of Sherlock's investigations had come to a head, it seemed, and it gave Mycroft an idea. Perhaps he might yet be able to salvage something for his unfortunate go-between in Accra.

###

New Scotland Yard was a large post-war building comprised of high steel, concrete, and acres of flat glass. Monotonous and functional, but to every villain around the globe it represented the heart of the London Metropolitan Police Service. Few criminals entered without experiencing a slight quiver of apprehension. Not even the innocent were immune.

Mycroft strode in as if he owned the place, his level-Ultra clearance removing instantly every obstacle between the building's entrance and the interview suites on the fourth floor. Scanning faces and listening, he paused briefly before heading directly towards the sound of a raised voice. He knew precisely what, and who, to expect.

"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded, in full spate. "I need data!"

"She's two rooms down, you loud git," Detective Inspector Lestrade fended off the younger Holmes' impatience. "She's giving her statement now, and if you can tone it down," he lowered his voice, meaningfully, "_If_ you tone it down, then maybe you can have a brief word with her when we've got what we need."

Sherlock threw the detective inspector a peeved look "_If_ you recall, Inspector," he retorted, "_you_ were the one who invited an opinion on the nature of the Armenian Chef's murder, yet now you deny me the opportunity to access critical information." Shoving both hands deep into his coat pockets, Sherlock stalked over to the window to stare moodily at everything and nothing.

Mycroft shook his head a little. His brother was a dichotomy of uncontrollable brilliance. If only he could master his emotions and harness all that energy, who knew how high he might rise. But no: Sherlock was a flame that burned brightly or not at all. Smoothing all expression from his face, Mycroft stepped into the room.

"Good morning, Inspector," he nodded briskly at Lestrade and, observing his brother's flatmate and erstwhile accomplice in the corner, "John."

"Mycroft," John acknowledged.

Lestrade winced internally. _Great_. Now he had both Holmes' in the same room. Clearly the Gods felt his life was insufficiently screwed up today.

"Your call mentioned Toska," Mycroft frowned at the tall, silver-haired Londoner. "Who is 'She'," he asked for the sake of clarity. "And why is this person the subject of my brother's current tirade?"

"Beginning a sentence with a conjunction bodes ill for this conversation," Sherlock muttered, giving the Starbucks across the road a particularly malevolent scowl.

"Sherlock, just wait a few minutes and you can talk to the woman," John said reasonably. "There's no point making her any more upset than she probably already is. Not everyone considers violent death a spectator sport."

Sherlock sighed theatrically and squinted down at a teenager on the pavement drinking coffee. Even at this distance it was plain that the boy was unlikely to pass his Geography examination set for that afternoon. No-one carrying _those_ books, drinking _that_ amount of caffeine and staring at the notes he had undoubtedly just photographed in the coffee shop, had academic success written anywhere in their near future.

"_She_," Lestrade looked at Mycroft and tipped his head towards the other room, "is an eye-witness to what was a rather nasty spot of murder. It seems our friend Toska had an unfortunate encounter with some acquaintances from back home, and _She_," he added, "saw the whole thing."

"Toska is dead?" Mycroft looked decidedly put out.

"_Very_," Sherlock noted, helpfully.

"Then in the interests of national security, I must speak with this person immediately," Mycroft stated flatly. There was a scoffing noise from the vicinity of the window as Sherlock swivelled on his heel.

"Exactly my point!" he lifted his hands in disgust. "Instead of which, I am standing here, twiddling my thumbs while the witness forgets everything she might have remembered."

"You never twiddle your thumbs, Sherlock," said John. "Stop exaggerating".

The door opened and a young WPC walked in clutching a sheaf of closely-typed sheets. "The witness' statement, Sir," she said, offering the papers to Lestrade.

"Finally!" Sherlock raced out of the room before anyone had time to react. Launching himself from the corner, John was close behind, hopefully in time to save the witness from an alarming confrontation of the Sherlock kind. Mycroft and Lestrade followed at a more prudent pace.

The office two-doors down was open. Inside, a woman stood, staring down at the same Starbucks that had distracted Sherlock scant moments before. Her head ached. She had trawled her way through dozens of faces, though it hadn't helped her feel any better. She had given a brutally detailed statement, but that hadn't helped either. Hearing swift footsteps, she turned and waited. Into the room rushed a tall man swirled inside a dark greatcoat. His face was pale, but it burned with intent. Stopping only when he was close enough to count her freckles, he loomed.

"How much can you remember?" Sherlock demanded, his ice-blue eyes strafing her face for information.

"You're not a police-officer," she said, unfazed by the stand-over tactics. Another person entered the room, and she turned to observe a shorter, blonde man wearing a more pragmatic expression. "Though you might be," she nodded at John.

"Might be what?" he asked, lost.

"A policeman," she nodded back at Sherlock. "This one isn't."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, Sherlock brought his eyes to within inches of hers

"Tell me what you remember about the attack," he demanded forcefully. John cringed. Sherlock could not keep doing this.

It had not been a good morning. A meeting at the university had been cancelled without notice, and she had already postponed a fight with her solicitor over an irritating lease issue. Then it had rained, and the new shoes she thought to wear only in her office had started to rub. On top of this, just when she really needed a cab, the entire London fleet became immediately noticeable by its absence. Deciding to walk until the nearest taxi-rank, she managed to get well-and-truly lost, ending up in a sordid little back alley somewhere between hell and nowhere. Then, of course, she had been privy to a gruesome murder and the apparently endless police procedures apropos to such a crime. All up, not the best of days thus far. And now this tall man was shouting at her.

_Enough_.

"If you don't release me immediately," her words were low with anger, "I will lay charges against you of assault, police harassment and the unlawful seizure." Almost immediately, the long-fingered hands lay a fraction less heavy.

_Good_.

Standing as straight as possible, Professor Catherine Adin shook herself free of the man's unwelcome grasp and continued to stare right back into his narrowing eyes. A veteran of endless battles _ad prælium_, Cate recognised a provocative stance when one was in her face, and she was not in any mood for such shenanigans. What she really wanted was a hot cup of tea and a chance to take her shoes off.

His usual shock-tactics being less than effective, Sherlock reconsidered. Annoying that his first approach didn't work, but something would. He observed.

Five feet six tall. Natural brunette. Rigid stance, almost on tip-toe – common threat-response – made her appear taller. Bit under nine stone. Athletic build. Fair skin with residual ephelis, likely Celtic heritage. Slightly rounded shoulders and smooth, unblemished hands said desk-work, not physical labour. Left-handed. Late thirties or very early forties with fine lines beginning to appear around the orbicularis oculi, the worry-line above her brow and the one paler strand in the dark hair directly above right eye, suggested forty-one. Hair cut neatly at shoulder-length; brows naturally shaped above hazel-flecked brown eyes. London-dweller, with untanned skin and Tissot watch (vintage, left wrist) suggested preference for function over form. Watch most likely inherited (maternal Aunt) as everything else relatively modern. No rings. Expensive but unfussy platinum earrings (pierced). Matching neck-chain, co-ordinated and unspoken _avant_. Classic, very good quality day-wear; too informal for the City or Inns of Court, but overly conservative for Arts and too idiosyncratic for service industries. Thoughtful choices of someone used to considering options. Clothes neither new nor old apart from the shoes (Italian), which, lacking wear creases, probably new and still stiff. Likely rubbing in damp weather. Educated, well-read, great diction. So, desk-job; something requiring personal style, tendency towards intellectualism, teacher. Expensive jewellery and clothes for a teacher, so something more. University lecturer? Used to arguments and decisive, more likely senior academic – Professor. Nearest campus to crime scene, University College in Gower Street. Slight speculation, but large English department there. Current Head of English department …

"How _is_ Professor Fullan, these days?" Sherlock asked chattily, throwing himself into the nearest seat.

In three seconds, the situation had travelled from incipient thuggery to tea at the Dorchester. Cate was bemused. Sighting down her nose at the irritating coat-wearer, she was considering her next words, as two more people entered the room.

Both male. Tall. One obviously at home in these offices, the other looking somewhat above it. Beginning to feel outnumbered, she stepped back, away from the closeness of these men.

Lestrade moved between her and Sherlock, his expression according the younger Homes a wordless but eloquent warning. Sherlock lifted a brow. Lestrade being protective?

"This is Professor Catherine Adin," the Inspector introduced Cate. "Our witness to the Toska murder."

Mycroft stepped forward and pulled out a seat. "Please sit," he suggested. "You must be tired after all that walking." Sherlock gave him a hint of veiled smile. Bad brother, Good brother? Cate sat. Her feet thanked her but she still felt uneasy.

That these strangers seemed to know so much about her was an unsettling sensation. And she was positive she hadn't mentioned her job. How did they know John Fullan?

"How do you know about …" she lifted a hand in query.

"He does that," Lestrade nodded at Sherlock. "Knows things."

"But he won't be doing it any more for a while," John arched an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. "Will you," not a question. Sherlock looked pained.

"How are you feeling?" John, in doctor-mode, looked at her. "No after-effects? Seeing something like that can be pretty unnerving."

"I'm perfectly alright," she answered honestly, "Although if someone were to suggest a cup of tea, I'd probably feel even better."

Lestrade shouted for tea.

The elder Holmes smiled faintly. "Perhaps it would help if you knew who we all are and why we want to speak with you," he said. "My name is Mycroft Holmes," he began. "I represent a government interest in the deceased party," he paused. "I'm sorry you have become embroiled in a most unpleasant situation."

Sherlock and John exchanged a knowing look. Mycroft being nice was instantly suspect. Or was he being devious? Devious seemed more likely. Sherlock examined his brother with a critical eye. _Odd_.

"This is my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft gestured, "and his associate, Dr John Watson. They are assisting the police with the investigation."

"And we've met," Lestrade took one of the other chairs.

"Seriously," John continued, "are you feeling Okay? Not shaky or nauseous at all?"

"I am a little familiar with the sensation of shock, Dr. Watson," Cate said with a rueful smile, "and I'm fine, really, but thank you for your concern."

Leaning half across the small table, Sherlock resumed his staring. "How much do you remember of the attack?" he repeated more quietly in deference to a look from John.

"All of it," Cate nodded, mostly to herself. "I doubt it'll leave me in a hurry."

"All of it?" Sherlock was sceptical. "Even what was said?"

"They spoke in Albanian," Cate said, "Not English."

"How do you know it was Albanian?" Lestrade asked.

"Because I speak Albanian," Cate shrugged. "Not that the killer was using complex words," she added. "Mostly threats."

"Can you take us through the event again?" Mycroft was maintaining his niceness for some reason.

"I've already given a statement …" Cate looked unhappy. "Must I?"

"Sometimes it helps to clarify small details … so, if you can," he said, softly. Mycroft had little desire to cause this woman further distress, but she seemed composed enough, and besides, he needed to know anything that might provide insight during the current problem. Any connection might be important.

Closing her eyes with a slight sigh, Cate reiterated everything that she had seen and heard and experienced in that lonely, sad little alley where she had been hidden by a large waste container. Her account was direct and visceral. She sipped cold tea and remembered all the blood.

"And then," she hesitated at a particularly dark image, "… and then he severed the man's right index finger with the knife," Cate exhaled hard. "He was already dead by that time, but there was clearly reasoning behind the act."

"Confirmation of identity, of course," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "But why all the vicious mutilations?" he mused.

"Transparently, a message to others." Mycroft suspected he knew who some of those others were. And also what they might be likely to do when they received the message. He had better get Stenton working on his industrialist's release before the entire house of cards came down.

"So where did you learn Albanian?" Lestrade was curious.

"Initially, from books," Cate smiled. "But then with assistance from a … colleague." The way she said _colleague_ suggested there might have been more to the arrangement than vocabulary.

Mycroft stood. "If the police have completed their initial discussions with you, Professor Adin, might I offer you a lift home? My car is outside."

Reluctant to accept anything from these people, yet with her feet still tender, and feeling a growing exhaustion, Cate nodded her thanks.

Lestrade shrugged, and then agreed. "As long as we can reach you during the day, there's no need to keep you hanging around here right now," he said. "I think we have what we need to begin with, but please keep yourself available and remain in London until advised otherwise, Okay?"

"Here's my card," Cate held out a small rectangle which Mycroft intercepted, briefly glancing at the details, before handing it onto Lestrade. "I can be contacted at the University or at home. My mobile's on there too."

"Shall we?" Cate followed Mycroft's gesture through the door and towards the lifts. Truth be told, she was starting to feel a little wobbly around the knees. Arriving at the bank of lift doors, Cate raised a palm to a suddenly clammy forehead. There was a faint roaring in her ears.

Immediately, a steadying hand was at her elbow.

"Take a deep breath," Mycroft advised evenly, as Cate leaned against the wall, "and again." He watched the Professor gradually regain her equilibrium as her pallor returned to normal. She felt very light as he supported her, though he could feel firm muscle through her sleeve. Hopefully, her emotional state would be equally as resilient.

The roaring faded slowly and Cate straightened up. She took another deep breath and rested her hand on the Government Man's arm. The trembles had mostly gone, and now she just felt embarrassed.

"Thank you," she said. "that was unexpected."

"Do you think you can make it to street level?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, of course," she said. "Sorry. Don't do this as a rule."

Mycroft waved the apology aside. "Hardly surprising," he said, "given the experience." Extracting a Blackberry from his inner pocket, "_Anthea_," he spoke quietly. "Deal with the Defence committee people for me, would you? I am detained."

Assisting Cate into the back of the Jaguar, Mycroft turned to her with a questioning look. "Where should we take you?"

"I'm in Hertford Street," she said, giving the exact address. "Not far from Green Park station."

Mycroft was mildly impressed. Not exactly the best Mayfair had to offer, but not bad on an academic's pay. Cate saw his expression and felt an odd need to explain. But there was no reason to provide such private information, she realised, giving herself a mental shake. Must be the shock.

The car drew up alongside a _bijou_ 1930s edifice. Art Deco at its finest.

"Used to be an hotel," Cate waved generally. "One of the few beautiful buildings to make it through the war unscathed. I have an apartment on the third floor."

Mycroft's driver opened Cate's door, and she stepped out, pleased. Rarely did she have the luxury of a chauffeured lift home. Turning to thank Mycroft for his thoughtfulness, Cate discovered him standing on the pavement beside her.

"I'd feel better knowing you got home safely," he said, walking towards the building's entrance.

"There's a security guard," Cate pointed inside, "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Even so." Mycroft held the heavy door open for her.

Giving him an old-fashioned look, Cate called an hello to George as she walked past.

"Hello, Dr. Cate," the security guard nodded back. Mycroft noted with approval that George took a good long look at him and made no attempt to hide it. Clearly a conscientious man. Ex-military. Boxed at school. Currently unmarried but with adult children. Golfer, prone to slicing.

"Are you really going to escort me to my door?" Cate turned by the gate of the lift.

Mycroft just smiled and gestured her into the confined space. They travelled upward in silence, then walked down a short, beautifully carpeted marble hallway.

"This is me," Cate indicated a polished burl-walnut door. Again, Mycroft smiled pacifically and said nothing.

When he made no comment, Cate gave him a questioning look. What a strange man. After his kindness, she couldn't very well disappear inside and shut the door in his face.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, almost laughing. His smile grew.

Cate flicked on a light-switch as they stepped through the door and Mycroft's powers of observation went into overdrive. Through the door was a different world.

A circular vestibule, he saw, with an immaculately tessellated black and ivory floor, in a room about sixteen feet in diameter. Lined from top to bottom with curved Japanned shelves that hugged the walls, the room was the Bodleian in miniature. The shelves were packed solid: every last horizontal surface stacked with an eclectic fusion of literatures. English language classics entwined with philosophical masters: Plato's _Apologia_ and Brecht's _St Joan of the Stockyards_ arranged themselves languidly beside Galileo's _Dialogues_ and a bound set of Tesla's articles on High Frequency Phenomena. Poetry from every quarter of the globe enfolded the _Meditations_ of Marcus Aurelius and the _Historiae_ of Tacitus; Shakespeare's sonnets dallied with robots and Hobbits, and there were imposing columns of non-fiction, including, Mycroft was intrigued to note, a small group of engineering and mechanical texts. Books of history, science, psychology and art massed together in intimate companionship. One entire shelf, running fully around the room near the ceiling, was devoted solely to dictionaries and grammars in more languages than Mycroft could count in such a brief survey. In between the throng of books, downlights picked out and exhibited a few choice items: a delicate Chinese pot that was surely Qingbai; a signed photograph of Edison; a worn Steiff teddy bear; a small group of hand-bound leather journals. The colours. The scents. The mysteries. It was as if he'd stepped into some magical land of epistemology. He felt his skin tingle. Oh, for five minutes in this room.

Cate misread his stunned expression.

"Yes," she mumbled. "Bit of a mess out here. I keep intending to clear it up but time is rarely my friend these days."

"For the sake of civilisation, Professor Adin," Mycroft said gravely, "please, never change any of this." He ran a fingertip along a leather spine. "This is beautiful." Mycroft's smile was so beatific that Cate felt herself beginning to like this government representative.

"Well, come on through," she grinned. "It's not as bad inside."

Avoiding a rosewood pedestal table that supported a vase of cut gardenia and several unopened bills, Mycroft passed through an open archway leading to the rest of the flat.

Three shallow steps down, Cate opened her hands, gesturing around. "_Chez Moi_. Make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on."

It was a large, high-ceilinged, open-style apartment occupying one full quarter of the third floor, with most of the windows facing towards Curzon Gate and Hyde Park. It would be worth a pretty penny. An L-shaped balcony clad the exterior walls, and inside…

The Professor was making tea in the kitchen: an open stretch of glossily tactile wood, discrete cabinetry and steel appliances that ran down a full third of the longest wall. Repeating the curves of the entranceway, it was a half-circle, blunted horns of dark green granite curving into the interior of the apartment's main volume. A circular, dark-red Jarrah dining table sat between the kitchen area and the main space, which cohered to the opposite long wall. An unlit open fire stood ready to do service, serving as the focus of two extraordinarily large and weathered nut-brown leather sofas, adorned with bright Kilim cushions. Beneath a scattering of Kirman rugs, a parquet floor glowed rust-gold.

A large modern desk stood off to one side at the far end of this long living area, cluttered with a contemporary detritus of CDs and memory sticks, but even these fought for space with small piles of books and papers. A svelte black computer perched in the middle of the chaos. Mounted on the wall above the desk was a collection of stringed musical instruments: several Spanish guitars of venerable ancestry; two nondescript violins; a viola and a cased-cello, which was leaning against the back of the desk. Next to it, an open music-stand cradled some sheet music and a closed violin case. There were a number of large oils and acrylics on the walls, most of them modern, but none of the colours or moods clashed. Everything added to the whole effect of sophisticated ease. An iconoclastic backcloth for … _what_, Mycroft wondered.

Walking over with a tray carrying the tea-things, Cate set it down on a low table in front of the sofas. "Please sit," she said, finally kicking off her shoes with relief. Pouring tea, Cate nodded towards the tray. "You can try milk or lemon in this," she suggested, "but I think you'll find it pleasant as it is."

Taking the proffered Minton, Mycroft allowed the fragrant steam to tell its secrets. An Earl Grey with fresh mint. Interesting combination. It tasted rather good.

"You home says provocative things about you," Mycroft volunteered.

Cate curled her legs up on the sofa and sipped her tea. "Really? And are you going to say something astonishing as did your brother?" she said, eyeing him cautiously. Cate wasn't sure how well she'd deal with any further astonishments today.

"Please forgive Sherlock," Mycroft looked not the least contrite. "A great mind, but sadly unskilled in the social graces."

Cate nodded, understanding. "So, what kind of provocative things is my furniture saying?," she asked.

"Pick something, and I'll tell you," Mycroft relaxed back against yielding cushions.

"How about these?" Cate teased, patting the sofa she was on. "Are they being indiscreet?"

"They say that you are a sensualist, craving comfort, almost to the point of hedonism; that you value substance over appearance; that you are by nature a Contrarian, and that, despite your desire for sophistication and polite society, you harbour a deep and abiding love of the traditional." Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea with a delicate manner.

Cate sat very still, preferring not to spill the hot liquid. Nothing he had said was news to her, but she'd never had anyone – not anyone, not even her _mother_ – say these things so matter-of-factly. It was a little confronting, but in an hypnotising, snake-charmer kind of way. Looking across at the tall man in the Savile Row suit, Cate decided he was nice. His brother and the murder notwithstanding.

"Sensualist?" her eyes danced.

"The texture of these old sofas is akin to velvet," Mycroft explained, touching the soft leather with his fingertips. "You like the feel of them against your skin," he added. "You probably sleep on them occasionally," he paused, taking another sip of tea. "Naked."

Cate managed not to choke, instead laughing outright as she replaced her cup on the table in front of her. "That's too close for comfort," she made a face of mock embarrassment. "Not sure I want to hear anything else about myself today. Had enough insight for a while," she stopped smiling suddenly and paled again. Mycroft realised immediately that the horror of that morning was beginning to sink in. The Professor should not be left alone. Not today. Not tonight.

"Can you stay with someone?" he asked gently. "Relative or friend?"

Cate inhaled sharply, pulling herself together. "I'm really alright," she shook her head at such silliness. "Just not used to such intense images in my head," she offered apologetically. Mycroft stifled a retort. It was so terribly British to be embarrassed by normal fears. He understood all too well.

"Still," he frowned, "best not to be alone for a while."

"I'll call a friend to come and stay with me tonight," Cate nodded to herself. "Perhaps you're right, although I don't think I'll be sleeping much."

Mycroft felt happier when she said that. He was sure it was happier.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two:**_

_Speaking in Tongues – After Dawn – Ken the Sniper – Viennoiseries – La Danseuse – Ole' Blue Eyes – History Speaks Volumes – Words Can Be Difficult – An Invitation – Mycroft Dislikes His Job – Time to Dance – The Vortex – An Evil Twin? – Cats and Pigeons._

_#_

_#_

He spent the larger part of the night speaking four languages: Argument. Persuasion. Cajole. _Threat_. Not only had his industrialist in Accra been targeted, but Mycroft discovered that three other agents had been summarily dealt with by governments who, until recently had been if not terribly friendly, then at least decently neutral. That had now changed, and Mycroft chewed his bottom lip as his mind raced through one potential scenario after another. The links connecting all these events with a grouping of politically-motivated murders in Tirana seemed obvious, yet there was something still missing from the puzzle, and Mycroft hated incomplete puzzles. Stenton was little help, although he was becoming quite good at making the small annoyances go away. People who should be being safely ferried to British shores were disappearing in unlikely ways, and there had to be a connection. Somewhere.

It came down to this: To get important people, _necessary_ people, out of places where they were either no longer safe to continue their work, or, worse, being actively pursued by individuals who wanted to ensure their work ceased entirely, the British and Americans had agreed to jointly fund and support a contemporary underground railway. _Operation Bradshaw_. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to get one or two people onto the nearest plane flying to a safe zone, but real life never seemed to be on the side of the angels. There were too many accurate surveillance technologies these days to risk open-air movement, so all traffic went to the two collection points: Tirana in the north and Accra in the south. The Americans would surveil Accra and the British, Tirana. Everything had to be covert, but now the safe, hidden route was compromised. Agents set up to act as contacts along the route were vanishing, or being set up, just as his man in Accra had been. There were two different but connected issues at large here: who was co-ordinating these nefarious disappearances, and how were they able to access traffic information? Until these questions were resolved, then both routes were closed. It was too dangerous, and Mycroft gave the word himself. "_Abort operations_."

Digging all ten fingers hard into his scalp, he knew he needed a break – a short time to do something different in order to give his manic thoughts an opportunity to find a saner path. It was how his mind worked. Whereas Sherlock adopted a more pitiless and unremitting approach usually involving drugs of some description, Mycroft had learned that forcing an answer meant that sometimes things were missed. And he could afford to miss nothing.

Leaning back in his chair with closed eyes, he realised the picture that he most wanted to think about was a round room full of books. An ingrained desire to know everything and to understand everything had been with him since childhood, and the craving to investigate and catalogue every last fragment of information in that room made his teeth itch. He wondered if Catherine Adin would notice if he broke in while she was at work. But then of course, there was George and presumably, George's friends: Mycroft was fairly certain they would not be wholly supportive of any casual breakage and entering. But the thought of all those curious books just sitting there, waiting to be explored …

Without realising it, he had picked up the phone again and was speed-dialling his opposite number, as near as the Americans had to such a function in the CIA, at Langley.

"Chad, did any of your people find any of the usual calling-cards at the kidnap sites?" he asked, consciously maintaining a mildly disinterested tone to his voice.

"Bullet-casings, DNA, that kind of thing, you mean? Not to my knowledge, Mycroft," the NCS section chief sounded unsure. "Whoever did this was a profession to the last detail, although I guess it's possible our forensic experts felt no need to release every comment in the reports. Want me see if there's a more itemised version for you?"

"It might be helpful," Mycroft was already thinking about something else as he ended the call. He needed someone to catalogue the properties left behind in the offices of the taken agents. There was every possibility that whoever took them might not have appreciated the importance of the antique Bradshaw in the offices, and even if a connection were made, without the confirmation code, everything would be guess-work. But there was a very important reason to find out if the books had been taken along with the agents or not. If not, then there may yet be a chance to salvage something from the situation. If the books were also missing, then the game was probably up and everyone was looking at a long stretch of water-treading. Mycroft breathed deeply, thanking his brain once again for filling in the gaps. Yet still the image of those circular shelves flickered at the edge of his awareness. Clearly, he would have to slake that peculiar thirst at some point. His thoughts turned to the books' owner. He had already requested a profile on the Professor.

###

Shortly after dawn, the guns had stopped. Still and chill from her hours crouched beside the pigs, Leysa peered out through the barred slit at ground-level. Black smoke everywhere like thick fog. There was no more noise: even the screaming had stopped. She watched for a long time before making up her mind.

"Come, Ionna," she beckoned with her hand as the small child dutifully clung on.

"I'm hungry, Leysa," the thin sound of a frightened child echoed loud.

"Shhh," Leysa motioned her to be silent. "I will take you to a place we can eat, but you must promise me to make no sound, no noise before we get there. Do you promise?"

The tiny girl nodded solemnly.

Picking up the baby who, thank all the saints was still asleep, Leysa opened the door to the pig-pen and slipped them all into the fog.

###

Cate hadn't slept very well. Following Mycroft's suggestion, she had indeed called a couple of her friends to see if they could come over, but one was still in Provence on a perfume-making holiday, and the other was in the middle of getting a tattoo.

"A _what_?" she grimaced.

"A quotation from Hartley," came the response. "From _The Go-Between_."

"Why?"

"_Because_." It was the best answer she was likely to receive. Cate admired her friends: they were clever, independent, witty and fun, but she would be the first to admit they tended towards the unconventional at times. Not at all like herself, of course.

Her mobile rang. Checking it, Cate saw a new number with a private listing. Feeling that any distraction was better than nothing, she accepted the call. It was the Government Man from the previous day. Cate smiled wanly.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she replied to Mycroft's greeting.

"Please, _Mycroft_. You sound tired."

"Didn't sleep much last night."

"Nor me. Too much to do," he rubbed his eyes. Not tired now, but endlessly weary.

"What do government people do when they can't sleep?" Cate yawned.

"Go for walks. Drink tea. Chat." Mycroft felt he was quoting from some 'how to' book. "Would you like to?" he asked suddenly.

"Like to what?" Cate blinked. This was making no sense.

"Go for a walk. Drink tea. Chat."

In her fatigue, it sounded a perfectly normal idea.

"I'm too tired to go for a walk, but I could probably manage the tea-drinking and chatting," she offered.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Mycroft was smiling as he put the phone down, although he wasn't entirely sure why.

George had been replaced at this very early time of the morning by, according to his ID badge, _Ken_, although there was little external difference between the two men. Ken (Marines) was, if possible, even more overt in his assessment of Mycroft as he was waved past, following Cate's acknowledgement of his visit. Ken clearly trained as a sniper, possibly also a toxophilite – he had the eye of an archer; had spent some time in the desert, and was comfortable with a range of military operations. Mycroft rather approved of snipers and made a mental note that if he ever needed some short-notice operatives, he should look no further than Cate's security desk.

"The door's open," Cate's voice sounded distant as Mycroft knocked. Once again, he experienced a light prickling of his skin as he entered Cate's world.

"Hope you haven't had breakfast yet," she shouted. "Thought of something to do instead of walking."

Mycroft came down the three stairs into a fragrance of warm Viennoiseries and sizzling bacon.

"You cook?" he inhaled the scent of breakfast.

"I cook," Cate handed him a plate piled with warm croissants. "Tell me what you think," she said, turning back to the stove.

"You made these?" Mycroft knew she wouldn't have had the time since he called.

"Made a pile last week and froze these," Cate strolled over and snagged the top roll, tearing off a chunk on her way to the refrigerator. "My friends see their therapists and get existentialist tattoos, or go tramping around the Himalayas writing postcolonial poetry, and I cook," she rolled her eyes at his faraway expression. "It's still perfectly legal." Handing him silverware and napery, Cate pointed at the table.

Shrugging his jacket off, Mycroft swiftly laid two places as a large teapot appeared.

"Shall I be mother?," he asked, as Cate added several covered dishes to the table. She stared at Mycroft with deep suspicion. "Only if you swear you don't vote Tory," she brandished a plate in a vaguely threatening way.

Mycroft snorted, and poured tea.

"The only real problem with liking to cook," Cate waved the last piece of her second croissant in the air to emphasise her point, "is that I also like to eat." Stuffing the remains of the pastry into her mouth, she sat back and grinned, disgracefully sated.

Mycroft hadn't exactly lagged behind, but even he was impressed at the volume of food the Professor had put away.

"In which case, how do you stay so trim?" he asked.

"You mean you don't already know?" Cate joked. "I was sure the government would have my entire life-history by now."

"Not yet," he gave her a faint smile. "Give me another hour."

It would be transparently obvious to even the blindest of men that the good Professor spent a significant amount of time in vigorous activities of a cardio-vascular raising nature. Gym; swimming also a possibility, but Mycroft thought a gym more likely given Cate's schedule and job. Plus she lacked the elongated muscular definition around her upper arms inherent to extensive swimming.

"I dance," Cate stood to clear the table, patting her flat stomach. "Well, I _say_ dance. Nothing like a good couple of hours flinging yourself around a dance studio for keeping the pounds off."

"You Waltz? Samba?" Mycroft had a fleeting mental picture of Cate dressed for a Tea-dance at the Waldorf.

"Something like that," she grinned. "And if it's not too repetitive a question," she added, "how do you stay so thin? Isn't government work fairly sedentary?" Cate paused. "Although I cannot imagine for one minute that you work all day in a dreary room filled with filing cabinets and piles of reports."

Mycroft's expression revealed nothing, but he sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "What is it you imagine I do?" Despite himself, Mycroft was diverted. It was rare to have an opportunity of small talk with someone who wasn't a deadly extremist of some sort or another. The Professor probably wasn't even a criminal.

Cate assessed him critically. "You seem fairly high-ranking," she said, "or at least, the Inspector treated you yesterday as being worthy of respect." Cate waved a hand in the air. "Something autonomous and self-directed? You clearly aren't a common-or-garden public servant, despite your vague claim to 'represent government interests'. On the contrary," Cate said quietly as she collected plates, "I think you are very senior, very much the man in charge," she paused and leaned closer. "Or are you an international spy and assassin, seducing gorgeous women around the world?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Mycroft turned and fixed her with a direct gaze. "What do you think?" he asked steadily, his blue eyes basilisk-like and unblinking.

Her pulse thumped and Cate stepped back. For the first time, she saw the fraternal relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock, and, quite honestly, it was a little intimidating. Everything conveyed in a single look. Brilliant; piercing, flaying. Cate was thankful she wasn't the subject of their collective focus. It would be quite something.

"I think I shall reserve judgement," she said, assuming a contemplative air.

Mycroft finished his tea. "I have a favour to ask," he looked down at his cup.

Cate was unsure what to say. "O_kay_," she hesitated, waiting. "What favour?"

Fiddling with the handle, Mycroft looked at her with a faintly self-conscious expression. "May I have a closer look at your books?" he asked. "I was thinking about them last night, and, frankly," he added, "I am very curious. Would you mind?"

As a lover of knowledge and books and, just, well, _things_, Cate immediately understood Mycroft's request.

"Of course, help yourself," she said, "after you've helped me stack the dishwasher."

###

Replacing his jacket, Mycroft went first to the items on display under lights.

"Why are these special?" he asked. "The Song bowl, the photograph, I can understand, but why this?" His fingers caressed the worn ear of the bear as he lifted it up. There was a thin ribbon around its neck with the name _Madoc_. "An old toy – not even yours."

Cate breathed slowly, not bothering to ask him how he knew the toy belonged to another. She walked over and, taking the bear from Mycroft, cradled it carefully in her arms.

"It belonged to my paternal grandmother," she said, stroking the thinning fur. "I didn't know her for very long, but I remember her wonderful stories when I was young. She made sure that the bear came to me. I never really understood why, but if she wanted me to have him, then I would."

"Your family are Welsh?"

Cate smiled. "My father's side are," she replaced the bear in its niche and looked at Mycroft. "What about your people?" she asked.

"Oh," Mycroft paused for a moment, wondering how on earth the conversation had veered in the direction of his family. "Nothing terribly special," he shrugged. "Mother, father, younger brother. Pretty much all there is to say, really," he turned to explore the journals.

"Ah," Cate demurred. "Perhaps not those," she touched the top book gently and looked up at him, a brief smile on her lips. "A little too personal."

Mycroft had already observed the antiquity of the volumes. The way the leather had aged and the specific dyes used in the colouration indicated they were at least a hundred years old, so almost definitely not containing the Professor's private thoughts. However, it was just as clear that they belonged to a woman of some note, possibly moneyed, as they were not inexpensive items. The colour of the bindings, green, purple and a faded white, told Mycroft everything else he needed to know. Suffragette colours. These books belonged to an even earlier relative of Cate's. He smiled to himself. It would appear that her iconoclastic streak had been inherited along with these items she so obviously cherished. He immediately turned to some of the other treasures.

"May I ask why these?" Mycroft indicated the shelf of engineering and mechanical texts.

Lifting out a copy of physical mechanics and flicking through the pages, Cate blinked slowly. "I wondered at one point if I might go into mechanical engineering," she said. "But I have no math, so that was out of the question," she said, replacing the book. "Although I still find the field interesting."

"And what about these?" Mycroft indicated the circular shelf above his head which teemed with dictionaries, thesauri and grammars. There were at least thirty different languages represented. "Do you speak all of these?" he asked curiously.

"Not all," Cate replied easily. "Languages are simple, although sometimes words can be difficult," she added cryptically. Mycroft moved to the next shelf, filled with poetry of the Korean Peninsula. In the original Hanja. Observing his questioning expression, Cate nodded.

"That, I speak," she said. "It's similar in many ways to Japanese." Mycroft's eyebrow rose in another question. "Yes, that too," Cate wrinkled her nose in a way he realised signalled personal embarrassment. The Professor was ill at ease talking about herself. How unfashionable. Mycroft smiled.

The next section of beautiful, hand-bound books featured printed folios of British composers cheek-by-jowl with works of Mathematics. Britten's _War Requiem_ stood sentry beside Fermat and Euclid.

Seeing his curious expression at the mathematics texts, Cate answered his unspoken question. "I am endlessly intrigued by patterns and deductions," she said. "Even if I don't fully understand how they work." _Interesting_. The Professor probably understood more than she realised.

"You favour the strings, I see," he said, pointing to several texts of instrumentation instruction. "Do you play?"

"Little guitar, a little cello, but I'm really working on my violin, which is horrible," Cate made a happy face. Mycroft again thought it odd for someone who felt no affinity with numbers, to so clearly delight in an associated knowledge. Music and numbers were a potent combination and Mycroft was deep into what appeared to be an authentic treatise by Pascal, when he realised that America was probably awake by now.

"I have to go," he turned suddenly. "It was delightful to breakfast with you. I hope you will permit me to return the favour in the near future," he said, formality returning as the external world beckoned.

"That would be very pleasant, Mycroft," Cate smiled up at him. "You cook?"

"I cook."

It wasn't until he returned to his office that Mycroft remembered the profile he'd requested on Catherine Adin. The burgundy-coloured folder waited for his attention. Now that he had it though, Mycroft wasn't sure what he wanted to do with it. It was common sense to gather as much information as possible about anyone connected to this situation, but he was experiencing an unusual sensation of mendaciousness. Professor Adin had been nothing but open and frank. Sometimes, Mycroft found his work disagreeable. Sighing, he pulled the folder closer and opened it to the first page.

###

Cate dumped her baggy canvas tote in the changing room. Her breakfast with the Government Man had reinvigorated her, and all she wanted to do now was burn off some of the energy surging through her veins. Strange that she should feel so full of beans after the last twenty-four hours. Hanging up her jacket, Cate quickly stripped off her jeans and t-shirt to reveal a body-length grey leotard. Rolling on a pair of old competition shoes and tying a cardigan around her shoulders, she joined the others in the main practice room.

Waving greetings to everyone, she found a warm spot and started stretching out her long muscles. A small group in the corner were arguing over the choice of first music.

"Call it, Cate," someone shouted. "Glitch Mob or Robert Plant?"

"_Animus Vox_ for me," she replied. "Perfect heart-starter."

Within seconds, the heavy bass beats and primal melodies of electronica washed over the room. People shrugged off coats and woollies and moved into starting places. Hopping on the spot, Cate felt she could run a half-marathon this morning, she felt so vital. Too late, she noticed Jérémy, their tall Martinique trainer watching her energetic activities. He threw her an evil smile, and beckoned her to the front of the pack.

"Free-style, " he whispered in her ear. "You lead."

"_Bastard_," Cate whispered back. Jérémy looked smug and walked off to grab a coffee.

The music began a strident unstoppable message of physical contest. Cate flicked a couple of swift back tucks into a round off and spun into the beat at the front. All eyes moved to her as Cate led the group through a series of pulsating and increasingly complex steps and power moves. Time to dance.

Two hours later, she lay sweating on the mats, her heart beginning to slow as her body cooled. She felt flushed and sticky, but glowed with energy and felt distinctly happier than the previous day. As endorphins coursed through her bloodstream and her mind became deliciously calm, Cate suddenly remembered a new detail about the killer. Minor, but it might be important. She should speak with Lestrade. Heaving herself up from the floor. Cate jogged to the shower.

Striding along the passage towards D.I. Lestrade's office. Cate almost wished she'd taken the time to go home and tidy up. Hair all over the place, not a shred of makeup and jeans and a t-shirt that had definitely seen better days, she felt a little rough. Not really an important problem, but still.

"So what's this new information?" Greg Lestrade offered his visitor a seat. The Professor was much more casual this morning. Less together. Less intimidating, in fact. Without cosmetics and the pricy clothes she looked, not really younger, but unsophisticated. Artless. The close-fitting jeans showed off far more than her clothes of yesterday. Lestrade liked what he saw, and he smiled. She looked like one of her students.

"Sorry," Cate apologised. "I only remembered it this morning at the gym and then came straight here." Lestrade nodded. That explained the casual look.

"The murderer had a tattoo on the back of his hand – small and black." Cate cast around in her head for an image that might explain the style. "Looked like a vortex – a small whirlwind. Here, let me show you." Leaning over the Inspector's desk, Cate found a scrap of paper and a pen and quickly drew a small funnel-shaped diagram.

"Like that," she pointed. "Very small, about the size of a fingerprint, just here," she said, indicating the back of her hand where the thumb and the index finger met.

"And I think," she added, "although I'm not absolutely positive, that the dead man had one in the same place."

"If that's so," Lestrade. considered, "then cutting off the guy's finger might not have just been to do with identification. Maybe the killer wanted to remove evidence of the victim's associations as well."

Cate shook her head. She had no idea what the murder had been attempting to do, but she felt better knowing the police had the additional information.

"Anything else?" Lestrade felt he may as well make the most of having the witness back in the office.

"Not that I can think of," Cate frowned, shaking her head. "But of course, if I do remember anything else …"

"Fancy a cup of tea?" Greg asked. "I'll get my people working on the tattoo and in the meanwhile you and I can slope off for a decent brew. When we come back, there may be something for you to look at. Sound reasonable?"

It sounded reasonable, and, as she hadn't anything else to rush off and do, Cate felt she may as well take tea with this smiling policeman, following him across the road and around a corner to a small empty café.

"They do a really good cuppa here," he said, waggling a couple of fingers in the air as the café owner nodded. Clearly Lestrade was a regular.

"So," he asked. "How are you coping?"

"Coping?"

"With the experience."

"Ah. Okay, I think," Cate played with her cup when it arrived. "Mycroft Holmes has been very nice," she added.

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "Really?"

"Yes. He's been most solicitous and considerate," she smiled. "We had breakfast this morning."

Coughing as the tea went down the wrong way. Greg looked at the Professor from under his brows. "You did _what_? With _Mycroft Holmes_?" he sounded horrified.

"He was perfectly pleasant," Cate protested, "although he looked at me once in a slightly odd way."

"The Holmes glare is known and feared throughout the civilised world," Lestrade grinned. This was more like the Mycroft he knew.

"No, it wasn't a glare," she thought back. "More an unspoken challenge," Cate remembered the sensation. "As if he was looking at the back of my head from the inside."

"Did he offer you money for information?" Greg grinned. "That's one of his usual moves."

"I think we're talking about two different people," Cate frowned and shook her head. "Mr. Holmes has been nothing but caring and attentive."

Greg looked her directly in the eye. "This _is_ Mycroft Holmes we're talking about here, right?" he said. "A man with more power in Britain than God, who can have people disappeared faster than ordering flowers, and who has never, _ever_, in the history of all things known, been called 'caring and attentive'."

"I don't know that Mycroft," Cate said. "There must be an evil twin. The man I met yesterday has been perfectly charming."

It was a bit much for Lestrade. Either the Professor was hallucinating, or Mycroft Holmes was up to something. Yet she seemed so adamant. He shook his head. It was all a bit above his pay-grade.

###

"And then," Sergeant Sally Donovan added another picture to the growing pile on the desk, "we have _this_ one."

"That's the one," Cate tapped her finger on the paper. "It was exactly like that."

Lestrade picked up his mobile and rattled off a swift text with a photo of the image Cate had selected. "Knowing Sherlock," he said, I expect him to be all over this in about twenty seconds."

Thirteen seconds later, the phone on his desk rang. With a superior smile on his face, the Inspector answered "Yes, Sherlock?" Nodding, he handed the phone over to Cate. "He wants to speak to you," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Did the killer say anything that wasn't in Albanian?" he asked. "Anything at all?"

Cate thought quickly. "Only at the very beginning," she remembered. "A greeting," she added. "He said 'My friend," and then she recalled something else.

"But he said it in _Turkic_," she breathed, "in _Tatar_."

"Are you absolutely sure?," Sherlock pressed, "because, if so …"

"But not with a Russian accent," Cate jumped in. "I know a Russian accent, and this was … different."

"Could it have been Ukrainian?"

"Yes," she said. "It could have been. "The phoneme definitely had a drawl to it."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied, ending the conversation and texting Mycroft.

'_Killer possibly Ukrainian. Member of mercenary group _Ajdaha_, with link to Chechnyan insurgents_. SH'

As soon as he read Sherlock's text, Mycroft began a swift analysis of all recent connections to, and interactions with, the Ukraine: recent language laws favouring Russian-speaking minorities; dealing with the xenophobia of Eastern European football fans; keeping watch on an increasing number of 'raiding' events terrorising small businesses, and, of course, there was that little _affaire_ in March, resulting in a few people getting very hot and bothered about the sudden swell in Russian geopolitical interests.

Mycroft frowned. The likelihood of the Russians being involved … Pulling out his Blackberry, he engaged in several very brief and very pointed conversations, which set a great many cats leaping and bounding into a very small flock of pigeons. Now he would wait and see.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three:**_

___One of Our Files is Missing – The Dead River – Under Surveillance – Monsters – Death in the Quad – A Nasty Game – John Babysits – Another Violin – Sherlock, Be Nice – A Fatal Mark – A Fellow Spirit – An Accidental Massacre._

_#_

_#_

"Then it's imperative you allow me access to all your staff files," Sherlock, never terribly accommodating when summonsed by his brother, was being true to form.

"Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head. "I cannot simply give you _carte blanche_ when it comes to my staff," he muttered. "I want your help, not your arrogance."

Several files of varying magnitude and confidentiality were missing. This in itself was a shocking lapse of administrative protocol, but some of these files were still active, which complicated the situation. Mycroft could clearly not trust his internal watchers to review themselves; an external regulator was needed.

John Watson, ever the stabilising reagent in the Holmes mix, looked very thoughtful. "Could an unauthorised person enter the building?" he asked. "Isn't there a physical security check at all exits?"

"Indeed there is," Mycroft sighed, looking exceptionally peeved. "As well as regular sight-checks on all files, but in this case, an implausibly convenient power-failure threw all recording devices off-track."

"Why not call in MI5 or MI6?" Sherlock sounded weary. "It's not as if you have anything to hide here, is it?" he asked provocatively.

Mycroft became standoffish. "I have no desire to involve either of those worthy agencies," he announced. "We will manage our own affairs."

"_We_?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

Mycroft looked down his imperious nose and said nothing.

"Oh, very _well_," the younger Holmes agreed with bad grace. "But there will be a _quid pro quo_ at some point."

Having got his way, Mycroft put on an affable face. "My thanks, _Brother_," he said, with scarcely a hint of irony. "I will leave this issue in your hands and continue at my other tasks."

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock baited. "Take tea?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head slowly. "I have to speak with Catherine Adin."

With Sherlock and John acting as external agents hunting for the mysteriously missing files, and his army of civil servants troubleshooting any and all potential issues inside, Mycroft knew his most effective function was to remain behind the scenes like a particularly premeditative spider. It was what he did best. There was a virtuosity in making things happen _sub silentio_. A small tug here; a little pressure there. It was the way things were done in rarefied altitudes. And he was _very_ good at it.

###

Clambering down the dawn-wet slope of grass and stone, Leysa brought the children to a rocky river-bed. The water normally was clear enough for the goats, but now, it was pink. Biting her mouth to stop a cry of grief, Leysa bent low, her earth-toned clothing for once a blessing against the hillside. The children were silent as they moved hurriedly down the water-course towards the main river at the bottom of the valley.

###

A sheaf of enlarged prints lay scattered across his desk and Mycroft looked grave. He hadn't moved from his position for several minutes as his mind ticked off all the possible connotations. Delivered in the mail that morning, they were a series of photographs of Sherlock, John Watson, Michael Stenton and Catherine Adin. All of them had been photographed at external locations and in none of them did the subject appear aware they were being caught on camera. It was concerning that someone thought these particular images would be sufficient to cause Mycroft disquiet, suggesting whoever the sender was, they knew of not only his connection to Stenton, but also his fraternal relationship with Sherlock, and his more recent links to John Watson and Catherine Adin. But why her? Unless these photographs were also connected to the Toska murder? It posited the notion that danger awaited all four of them. Michael Stenton would naturally be provided with the full protection of his office; Sherlock and John had been placed under an increased level of surveillance since the little matter of the Cabbie serial killer, thus Mycroft moved immediately to ensure Catherine Adin was equally watched over. She might not be comfortable with it, but with luck, she need never know. Yet to ensure her co-operation, it might be politic to bring her into the picture, as it were. Mycroft sat, pondering the options.

Cate was in her office, just about to head off for a lecture. She had given this particular one before, so was already comfortable with the content, although she always felt the need to check her information right up until the last minute. Gathering a few special texts she might use in case of source questions, she headed off across the quad towards the Aldous Huxley Building. Entering the main lecture theatre, she was pleased to note that most of the seats in the large raked hall were already filled – Cate waved an hello to some familiar faces and plugged her memory stick into the theatre's multimedia centre, opening her note file. It took only seconds for a large image of a 1950's pulp magazine science fiction monster to appear in all its gruesome glory, green scales, bug-eyes and all. Tapping a control, Cate dimmed the lights somewhat so that the screen shone the more brightly. Immediately a ripple of chatter floated around the room. Cate turned to face the audience and took a deep breath.

"When we were children and frightened of the dark," she began clearly and precisely, "it was usually because we dreaded the things that might appear when the light was gone." Flicking the automatic slide-changer, Cate pulled a sequence of different yet equally horrific images of monsters onto the screen above her head. The entire theatre had fallen silent.

"Not only monsters of the Possible," she said, "but monsters of the Real." Cate turned with open hands to the audience.

"This lecture will examine and discuss the meaning of monsters, their historical place in the human psyche, their uses and abuses, and will question the evolution of the monster from this," she clicked to a Fra Angelico painting of a leering black devil, "to this," bringing up a starkly powerful photograph of Slobodan Milošević. There was a slight echo in the absolute stillness as Cate put the clicker back on the desk. Smiling a little at the complete hush, she began to do what she was best at doing.

It hadn't been his intention to sit in on Cate's class, but as there would be no opportunity to speak with her before the end of the lecture, Mycroft felt he might as well relax and listen. Seated near the back, he was able to observe the fairly packed auditorium while remaining unobserved himself. Students of all ages and character were in attendance, some of whom were clearly from Cate's department, and others who were just as obviously from the sciences. There were even a few academics.

From the outset, it was plain to everyone in the room that the Professor was good at her job. Using a variety of scholarly and more pragmatic sources, Catherine Adin wove an intricate fabric of question, evidence and answer. After one particular cogent set of arguments on connections between the Devil-worship in eighteenth-century Paris, social justice and organised crime in Europe, Mycroft felt as a lecturer, she had missed taking silk. Catching himself nodding agreement with a couple of her comments, he realised he was actually interested in the discourse, not a result he would have anticipated.

An hour later, as Cate was organising herself to leave, a knot of her favourite students ganged up in front of the lecture desk. An especially lanky blonde came up grinning.

"That was as fascinating as it was the first time," he said, flicking hair out of his eyes. "Pretty ballsy to elide modern dictators with the Catholic church."

Cate grinned back. "No guts, no glory, Mr Grey," she laughed, sliding a couple of papers into her bag.

"Yeah, but now you've got the political bigots as well as the God-botherers upset," he added, as several more students came to compliment her on the lecture. Cate shooed them away after a couple of minutes. She had two supervisory meetings to make and very much wanted a cup of tea first. Sensing another person approach, Cate turned with the intent of making a swift response and an even speedier escape, and saw Mycroft Holmes.

"Hello again, Mycroft," she greeted the Government Man. "Considering further education?"

"Not at present, no, " he said. "Although that was an intriguing discussion."

"You attended the lecture?" Cate was gratified.

Mycroft nodded towards the back of the theatre. "Best seat in the house," he said, with a slight smile.

"I assume this isn't a social call, " she said. "Do you have news about the murder?"

"Indirectly," Mycroft indicated the door. "Can we talk elsewhere? My car is outside."

"I'm a little pushed for time," Cate looked at her watch. "I have a PhD student to meet in about fifteen minutes, can we talk and walk?"

Not entirely happy with the arrangement, Mycroft agreed reluctantly. Cate grabbed her bag and a small pile of books.

Stepping into the daylight, Mycroft couldn't help but assess their location in negative terms. In an open space, they were completely framed among tall buildings. It was a kill-box, and his every instinct told him to get away from the place as soon as possible. Cate was waiting for him to speak, and looked at him expectantly.

The long-limbed blonde student Mycroft had seen speak with Catherine in the theatre saw them approaching and swanned over.

"Hi Prof," he said, giving Mycroft a swift appraisal. "Any chance I can borrow your copy of Lovecraft's _Dark Reflections_?" he asked. "I can't afford to buy it yet, and you know I'll look after it for you."

Cate smiled up at the tall young man. "Here you go, Rory," she said, handing him her pile of texts and her bag. "You're welcome to borrow anything there, as long as you drop the rest of this stuff off for me at my office."

"Deal," he said, "thanks!" He whisked books and bag out of her hands and gave a little bow. After taking a couple of long strides, the young man turned and walked back up to Cate. "You really are pretty cool for a teacher, you know," he said, giving her a peck on the cheek before turning and walking off again.

About to comment reproachfully on the liberal nature of Faculty-student relationships at university these days, Mycroft observed a nearby patch of grass jump in a puff of dust.

"_Sniper_!" Grabbing her by the arm, he dragged Cate back towards the cover of the theatre as two more divots exploded out of the ground in front of them.

Shocked first by being seized, then by the slow realisation that something very bad was happening, Cate resorted to expletives.

"What the _fuck_ ..?"

At any other time, Mycroft might have relished scolding Cate about her choice language, but he was focussed right now on keeping them both alive. Where was his surveillance?

Leaning back against the protection of the building, Cate drew breath and looked around. What in hell's name was going on? It was only as she looked back to where she and Mycroft had been standing, that she noticed a body lying on the ground, a mop of blonde hair tangled among the grass and gravel.

"NO!" a sense of horror swept over Cate and she stood, about to run back. Mycroft's hand snaked up and pulled her back down.

"You STAY here," he roared, "until _I_ say so."

"One of my students is out there," Cate stabbed the air frantically, "He's hurt, I have to see …"

"You stay still and _wait_," Mycroft pushed her back against the wall, not letting her shove past him. Calling his people, he demanded to know what was going on and where the bloody hell was the security team?

Torn between listening to someone who seemed to know what he was doing, and the desperate need to go to the young man lying on the grass, Cate leaned, panting, against the wall. Less than twenty seconds later, the squeal of tyres on tarmac and the revved engines of powerful cars told her that help had arrived. Not waiting for Mycroft's permission, she dashed out to the young man lying still on the ground. All academic staff had first-aid training, there would be something she could do.

But it was clear when she reached Rory Grey's side that it was far too late to do anything. His back was soaked in blood and Cate could find no pulse. She searched frantically for his heartbeat, for any sign he was still alive in there, but his eyes were wide and unblinking, his face unmoving. She clamped bloodied fingers to her mouth as awareness of his death became real. The sudden pain in her chest turned to harsh, silent heaves as Cate's hand rested on the young man's hair.

Mycroft was relieved when he heard the cars arriving. Once he uncovered the root of this debacle, heads would roll, and if he had his way, it would be a literal act. By the time he saw Cate running out to the young student but she was too far away to be stopped. He closed his eyes and hoped against hope there would be only one victim today. Striding over to where Cate was now virtually surrounded by large men with guns, it was obvious the boy was gone. She was stroking his head in a way that was affecting to see. This was the second violent death she had witnessed in as many weeks. Mycroft promised himself she would see no more.

The police and ambulance people were milling around when Sherlock and John arrived having been contacted enroute by Lestrade. Cate was sitting on the ambulance steps being cleaned up as much as was possible given the adhesive nature of blood. Such as she could, Cate had given her preliminary statement and wanted only to go home. Mycroft was torn between a knowledge of the actions he needed to set in motion, and the desire to make sure she was going to be alright. He turned to John.

"Can you see her home and stay with her for a while, Doctor," he asked. "I have an extensive amount of havoc to wreak."

"Of course," John, ever the capable one. Mycroft used the honourative only when things were serious. "I'll make sure she's alright," he said.

The elder Holmes beckoned one of his people. "Take them home," he instructed, "and do whatever he says," he added, pointing to John.

Turning to his brother, Mycroft shook his head. "What a bloody mess," he spat. "Massive communications cock-up and contradictory orders issued: someone has been playing a very nasty game with me," he concluded. "And I very much need to know who, how and why."

Sherlock was scanning the skyline.

"Over there," he pointed, nodding. "Best spot for a lofty ambush with good, all-round vision; protected by other buildings, and with an easy escape route."

"But how could someone intercept my internal surveillance and support orders?" Mycroft's thoughts were tumbling over and over as he tested various protocols against failure parameters. His people had already blocked off the quad, and the police were dealing with the university authorities. Lestrade stalked over.

"So," he said. "Which one of you is going to tell me what in hell's name just happened?"

Mycroft frowned heavily. "It appears the Toska murder was not the end of the local problem," he stabbed the ground with his umbrella. "Further, it now seems as though the situation has become exponentially more complicated." Nodding to the late Mr. Grey, "this young man is quite possibly the third death connected with a much larger issue on which I need to confer with our American allies."

Lestrade chewed his lip. "There are maybe three deaths connected to whoever dissected Toska, and the Yanks are involved?"

"In a nutshell, Inspector," Mycroft's features twisted. "But the stakes have increased, with threats received against my brother, John Watson and Professor Adin, as well as my personal staff." He paused. "It is also becoming apparent that there may be a person or persons _among_ my own staff acting against us."

"Am I going to see more bodies?" Lestrade's voice was flat as he looked towards the covered form of Rory Grey.

Mycroft looked at him dispassionately, "It's entirely possible."

###

Catherine Adin was still in the shower when John received the text from Sherlock requesting his company and that of his Browning.

'Staying with Prof Adin until further notice'

'Need help persuading man to talk – SH'

'You want me to shoot him?'

'Provide the potential of shooting – SH'

'Are you in danger?'

'No – will extemporise – SH'

John shook his head. He was uncomfortable with the notion that Sherlock might be getting himself into a difficult situation, but then, that's what he did. Cate Adin was in a bad way and, as a doctor, he had already requested an effective sedative for her to sleep through the night. Her body needed to deal with this new shock, and sleep was probably the easiest way. John was starting to think she'd been in the shower a very long time, when Cate walked into the main room dressed in faded jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. She looked pale and a little fragile. Her eyes were red.

"Tea?" she asked tonelessly.

"I'll make it," he said, standing.

"No – it'll give me something to do," Cate sounded exhausted.

"I'm having one of Mycroft's people drop a sedative over," John walked over to the kitchen. "You'll need to sleep tonight and that will help."

Cate poured boiling water into a china pot. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she said quietly.

"_John_, please. Everybody calls me John."

Lifting her face, Cate gave him a faint smile. "John," she said. "Thank you for bringing me home."

"Yeah, well, I know how this kind of thing makes people feel," he nodded. "And so does Mycroft Holmes."

"He's a nice man," Cate poured tea into two mugs and handed one to John, pointing to the sugar.

"Nice?" John sipped his tea carefully. "Not usually a word associated with either of the Holmes boys," he said.

"Can't really speak about the younger one," Cate came to sit on one of the sofas. "But Mycroft has been genuinely thoughtful, at least to me," she shrugged. "When I told the Inspector that Mycroft and I had breakfast together, he nearly choked."

Nearly choking, John put his mug down. "You had breakfast with Mycroft Holmes?"

"That was the exact what Inspector Lestrade said," Cate looked up, surprised. "What is it about the man that makes everyone assume he's some kind of fiend?"

"Maybe because Greg Lestrade and I know him a little better than you do?"

Cate digested that for a moment. "Fair comment," she said. "On the three occasions I've had to meet him, there's been a death on two of them, which might have some bearing on his behaviour." Cate turned to look at him." But surely that would have made his behaviour less pleasant, not more," she shook her head. "This is all too confusing. I can't think."

"He's a complex man," John said. "They both are."

Cate started walking around the room, restless and uncomfortable.

"Would you like to watch some TV?" John asked. "It might help take your mind off things."

"There is one thing that might help," Cate looked embarrassed, "but I'm hesitant to mention it."

John remained still, just turning his head. "And what," he asked, "might that be?"

"Sometimes when I really need to get my thoughts to a different place …"

John's eyebrows lifted.

"I play the violin." Cate said hurriedly. "But I don't play very well and I hate to ask anyone to endure it."

John cracked a curious smile. "Go right ahead," he waved a hand. "Used to manic violin-playing at all hours of the day and night," he added. "Sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes for two years and pretty much nothing is likely to upset me now."

"You sure?" she asked, doubtfully.

John kept a straight face. "If it'll make you feel better," he said.

Opening the case resting on the music stand by her desk, Cate lifted out a violin that John thought was nominally smaller than the one Sherlock abused. It also looked shinier and in better nick. He watched her tighten the bow a little before resting the violin on her right collar bone. This looked odd, until he realised she, like himself, was left-handed. Laying the bow silently below the bridge, Cate took a deep breath. John prepared not to wince.

Drawing the bow in long gentle sweeps, the sounds Cate achieved from the instrument were not unpleasant, regardless of what she might think. Certainly not a professional standard, but not too shabby either. John relaxed and prepared to listen, wondering what she might feel capable of.

Cate started to feel better on the first draw of the bow. Because she knew she was pretty dreadful, she took care to relax her wrist and feel each note. Even to her own critical ears, her bowing today was not so awful. Closing her eyes, Cate took her playing to a private place, where all that mattered was the mournful song and the sweet notes.

John recognised the melody. Bach's _Air_. Just as he was enjoying the plaintive theme, Cate stopped abruptly. Swinging around, he saw the violin hanging by her side as she shook silently, a hand covering her face.

Immediately he walked over and put his arms around her. Cate latched onto his jumper and let the tears come.

###

'Mission accomplished – where are you? – SH'

'Still at Cate's place'

'Need you to look at this [image attached] – SH'

'Looks like a whirlwind'

'Exactly. Will meet you at Prof Adin's – SH'

'Not a good idea – she's not up to you yet'

'Cate's – not a good idea – will see you at 221b - JW'

'SHERLOCK – do NOT come to Cate's - JW'

###

Less than ten minutes later, John heard a knock at Cate's door. Sighing, he realised it could only be Sherlock, despite his saying not to come. When either of the Holmes' wanted to do something, John knew from personal experience that they'd probably end up doing it. Whatever it was.

Opening the door, John shushed Sherlock into an immediate silence.

"She's dozing on the sofa, " he said quietly. "Try not to wake her, she's taking it all a bit rough." He added.

Looking around the circular foyer, Sherlock's curiosity was as piqued as his brother's had been, but since he sought John's opinion on how the decay-rate of skin might affect the clarity of a tattoo, Sherlock felt now was not the time to indulge himself. Stepping down into the main living area, he saw Cate Adin curled up on one of a pair of massive couches big enough for even he to stretch out on. Taking in the rest of Cate's home with a rapid assessment, he adjusted his opinion of her. Not as dull as she might have been, he considered. Nor was she asleep.

"Any chance of tea?" he asked in a normal voice.

"_Shhh_, Sherlock," John waved him silent. "Let the woman sleep."

"She's awake, John," Sherlock turned to look. "No need to whisper."

Cate gave up trying to doze and walked towards the kitchen, her restlessness returning.

"Do either of you chaps want to eat?" she asked. "I need to be doing something, so you'd be helping me out if you say yes."

"John will always eat," Sherlock's glance took in her pale face, red eyes and dishevelled clothing. "and I would be very happy to have some tea," he added in a more temperate voice.

Throwing him a brief smile, Cate switched into domestic mode.

John nodded approvingly. "That was considerate," he muttered. "Good, in fact."

Sherlock looked fatigued. "Really, John," he said quietly, "even I can pretend to be nice."

Lifting an eyebrow, the Doctor smiled. Of course Sherlock knew how to pretend – even to himself, it seemed.

"How long would this take to decay beyond visible recognition?" Sherlock put the image on his phone squarely in front of John who was still wondering about the sensitivity of asking Cate to make him something to eat.

The image was of a small black-inked whirlwind, clearly etched onto a portion of human skin. To John's eyes, the skin looked reasonably new. Old skin was more yellow and parched-looking.

"The thing with small pieces of skin like this," he pointed, "is that instead of rotting, they actually desiccate and become mummified." He screwed up his face. "Could be a couple of weeks old, could be a couple of months – hard to be accurate with only this to go on."

"How likely is a couple of weeks?" Sherlock looked satisfied.

"Could be that," John said. "Easily. But look how clean the lines of the tattoo are," he pointed. "This is not only fresh skin, but the pigment itself is recent. Where'd it come from?"

"Off a corpse in Bart's mortuary."

"Can't be Toska as he had his finger cut off …" John thought. "So who does this, _did_ this, belong to?"

"Excellent question," Sherlock looked pleased with the puzzle.

"But it doesn't really look like skin off a hand," John tilted the phone to try and see more clearly.

"They didn't find it on his hand," Sherlock grinned with delight. "On his back."

About to mention that Sherlock's ghoulish pleasure was a little unpleasant at times, John was interrupted by the arrival of food.

"Here you go," Cate placed a plate of grilled comestibles in front of him. Having not eaten since a hasty breakfast on the run, the smell was heavenly. Grabbing a fork, and throwing Cate a massive grin of thanks, John dug in.

"And tea for you both. Mr Holmes," Cate placed a tray of tea-things beside Sherlock and peered at the image on his phone.

"That's the tattoo I saw on the killer's hand," she breathed out slowly.

"Better call me Sherlock." Making a long arm, Sherlock poured himself tea. "It appears to be the mark of a group of mercenaries out of the Balkans," he said.

"The Ukraine, you said?" Cate looked distant. "Ukrainians who speak Tatar," she mused.

Noticing her expression had lost its woebegone edge, Sherlock discerned something of a fellow spirit. Rambling, of course, but perhaps not unhelpful.

"Thoughts, Professor?" he asked, sipping tea.

"_Cate_," she replied. "Ukrainians who speak Tatar don't like Russians," she said. "Ancient tribal lands along the borders north of Kharkiv," Cate paused, thinking. "Lots of problems, religious, political. Russia wants the land because of large Titanium deposits." Closing her eyes as she recalled the details, "some big upheaval there about thirty years ago … can't quite remember..." she finished, turning to look at Sherlock and John.

John had stopped chewing, his fork arrested half-way between plate and mouth, his eyes flicking between her and Sherlock, whose own eyes were hooded and introspective.

"Don't like the Russians?" he nodded. "That would fit."

"What would fit?" John swallowed and attacked a mushroom. "This is really very good," he nodded to Cate, "really good."

"John, please forget your stomach for one minute and _think_," Sherlock said. "It's a two-day drive from Kharkiv to Tirana, where Toska came from," he mused. "Nearly fourteen-hundred miles by road," Sherlock started to pace. "No towns, dark nights, lots of thing can happen along a road like that."

"It was a massacre," Cate nodded, suddenly recalling.

Frowning, Sherlock turned to stare. "Thirty years ago," Cate added, "an entire village, razed to the ground by Soviet war-games gone bad."

"It was hushed-up very carefully, in that case," Sherlock said. "First I've heard of it. It's nowhere on the internet, and I was recently in Belarus." He turned to stare at her, "How do you know about it?"

"I attended a conference in Kiev at the end of last year," Cate said. "Plenty of time to make new acquaintances and exchange gossip at a conference." Taking John's empty plate back into the kitchen, she turned, remembering. "Gossip about how the massacre wasn't actually an accident," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four:**_

_Uneasy Lies the Head – Sherlock Observes – Genocide – Stay With Me – Mea Culpa – The River – Funeral for A Friend – Thunder – Reckless Secrets – Ambush! – Offensive Driver – In This Together – Not A Democracy – Omelettes and Opera. _

_#_

_#_

As soon as he'd finished a scathing critique of his security protocols and had demolished the complacency of several HoDs, Mycroft, still disgusted, dismissed the lot of them from his sight. There was an acrid, sulky sensation in his stomach and an urge to visit an uncharitable accounting upon a great many people. Not only was the mystery of the missing files still an elephant in the room, but either himself or Professor Adin, or both of them, had been attacked by an unknown assailant, and a young man had ended his life as collateral damage. It was beyond tolerance. Catching himself slamming a desk drawer in frustration, Mycroft knew he had to get out and breathe air unsullied by ineptitude and apology. He summoned his car.

Arriving at Cate's building, Mycroft took several minutes enlisting George's co-operation and explaining the nature of reality as it applied to himself, Sherlock, John, and now, to Catherine Adin. George remained unruffled, asking only if Mycroft could possibly expedite the renewal of a firearms licence. Possibly three licences, he said, nodding to the empty space beside him. For the first time since leaving the university that morning, Mycroft smiled a grim little smile. On the advice that both his brother and John Watson were currently in Cate's apartment, Mycroft stopped smiling and started frowning. If Sherlock had upset Cate any more than she already was, there would be words.

John opened the door to his knock. Through the book room, Mycroft heard a low murmur of voices. If John had let him in, then it could only mean …

"But that's not possible, surely" Cate objected. "The Soviets were still there in 82', and if there had been a cover-up, by now someone would have talked?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock paced, thinking. "Perhaps the witnesses themselves were eliminated. It's happened before."

"What, _all_ of them? But that means entire families, children … _babies_," Cate was appalled. "I mean," she paused, looking for the words, "if that's so, then this is, this is…"

"Genocide," Mycroft stepped into the middle of the conversation. "I had my people look into the Petronovka disaster last night," he said, coming to stand opposite Cate. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a more tranquil tone.

A nuance in Mycroft's voice caused Sherlock to observe his brother with the Professor. _Interesting_.

Cate was too pale, Mycroft saw, but she had, at least for the time being, contained her emotional distress. He felt rather pleased that she and Sherlock had achieved a détente of sorts, even through the grisly topic of mass-murder.

Hearing Mycroft's voice brought back some of the images she was doing her best to avoid, but greeting him as normally as she could, Cate offered tea, the universal panacea.

"But why now?" Sherlock's face was a picture of concentration. "Why suddenly, after all these years does this violent event offer a connection to Tosca's death, Balkan mercenaries, and, possibly, a sniper attack?" he ran fingers through his hair. "There has to be some simple explanation, some common denominator I haven't seen yet," he muttered. "Need more information."

Turning to John, Sherlock looked opportunistic. "Know any mercenaries?" he asked.

John made a face. "Knew a couple back in the day," he said. "Not sure where they are now though."

"If they're in London, we can find them," and Sherlock was already halfway out of the room.

John nodded thanks to Cate. "Great food, cheers," and was gone.

Mycroft waited until he heard the door close before he turned back to Cate.

"How are you holding up?"

Cate shook her head. "I feel … bad," shaking her head, she looked down. Mycroft realised she had been about to say something else, but changed her mind.

"What is it?"

Cate wrapped her arms around herself and walked away.

"Cate, what is it?" Mycroft felt strangely uneasy.

"I _can't_, Mycroft," she ground out. "Don't ask me anything more, I just can't, not yet."

"You cannot stay here alone," Mycroft shook his head. "You were by yourself the last time and you should not be expected to endure this again." He sucked in a slow breath. "You had better spend the night at my home," he nodded as if to himself. "At least then I'll be sure you're safe."

Cate sounded drained. "Mycroft, I will be perfectly fine here, there's no need to trouble yourself. I'm a big girl."

"If that's the best argument you can think of, then I rest my case," he said. "Put some things in a bag and we'll be off."

"Mycroft, no," Cate was still hugging herself.

"For goodness sake, woman," Mycroft started to lose patience. "Stop bloody arguing and come with me."

With a wretched look, Cate capitulated. "Give me five minutes," she faltered. Mycroft knew immediately he'd been right to press the point. In her normal state of mind, she'd never have caved in so easily. His fingers closed around the small box of sedatives John had recommended. Sleep would be the best thing.

In less than five minutes, Cate appeared with an overnight bag and a coat. The Jaguar was warm and within moments they were heading up South Audley Street towards Mycroft's home.

Taking her bag and ushering her inside, Mycroft pointed towards the main lounge. "Please sit," he said. "I think a coffee and something a little stronger is needed."

Had Cate been feeling less miserable, she would have enjoyed indulging her curiosity about him. It might have been intriguing to see if she could discover something about the private man behind the public façade. But all she could feel was a pitiless chill inside as the same question kept churning round and around until it made her want to scream.

Carrying a tray with two coffee cups and two glasses of something amber, Mycroft set them down and looked at her with a critical eye.

"There's something you're not saying and you need to say it," he observed. "What is it?"

Cate shook her head and tried a smile. "Nothing". It was a pathetic evasion and one Mycroft refused to give the slightest credence.

"Professor Adin," he resorted to formality. "Unless you share your concern with me, I cannot help but suspect you of concealing information about this morning's attack."

It was wrong, it was unfair and it was cruel, but Mycroft needed to make her speak. As his words sank in, he saw Cate's head lift sharply and her expression ignite with resentment. _Good_. The desired response. Now, a little push.

"Unless you want to have this conversation with the police, I suggest you tell me exactly what it is that bothers you, or I shall have little recourse but to assume the worst."

Cate's expression passed through anger and approached fury. She stood, trembling, fists clenched tight.

"Was it my fault?!" she cried. "Did Rory die because of _me_?"

Of all things, he should have suspected this.

"You think the sniper was aiming for you?" Mycroft was impassive.

"I'm the one who witnessed the murder!" she raged. "I'm the one who told the police everything! I'm the one who signed her name to all those statements. Of _course_ I think the damn sniper was aiming for me."

Cate's voice shuddered to a whisper, "and Rory Grey died instead," she drew a ragged breath. "It should have been _me_, not him."

Mycroft didn't know whether to be angry or diplomatic, not that either would make much difference.

"Are you really so devoid of sense?" his acid words cut through Cate's fog of misery. "It was _my_ people who had been called off and _my_ security team that had been waylaid. It was nothing to do with you except for a vastly unfortunate coincidence."

Mycroft sighed. "It had nothing to do with you," he said in a softer voice. "You were not to blame for any of it, and certainly not for the boy's death."

As she looked up at him, Mycroft could see Cate wanted to believe him, desperately needed to believe him.

"It's the truth," he added simply. "Not your fault."

A massive shudder wracked her body, and Cate almost stumbled. Mycroft stepped close and she moved silently into his arms.

"Not your fault," he murmured, his touch light.

Leaning against Mycroft until she could trust her legs, Cate took a slow, deep breath. "Thank you," she spoke very quietly. "That helps."

"Drink?" moving away, Mycroft held out a glass.

###

Once they had reached the swift-flowing river, Leysa looked for a boat. It didn't matter that she would not be strong enough to row, the current would take them downstream to the next village, and even further if necessary.

A bleached-grey shape lay, half upside-down, on the rocky bank. Giving the baby to Ionna to look after, Leysa turned the boat on its keel and dragged it to the water. Putting the children into the bow, Leysa pushed until her heart felt it would burst, but she got the boat into the current. Managing to climb in with her long, unwieldy skirt, she wrapped herself around the babies and began to pray in earnest.

If a soldier saw them, this would be the children's last sunrise.

###

The morning was chill and grey with an assurance of later rain. _Perfect day for a funeral_, Cate thought, as she stood in the back of an indifferent little church outside Kings Lynn. Wanting to be there for Rory's service, she boarded a train at Liverpool Street early in the day and then took a taxi to the church. As funerals went, this one was predictably awful: shattered hopes, unanswerable questions and raw emotion.

Standing away from the family group around the grave, Cate found herself under the eaves of a large Yew. Close enough to be respectful and far enough away to provide privacy. Looking around, Cate saw a couple of large men in anonymous raincoats standing near the main path. Something about their stance looked odd until she realised they stood like soldiers.

"Hello, Cate," Mycroft Holmes walked around the other side of the tree to stand nearby, watching the proceedings at the graveside.

"Mycroft," she nodded. "What are you doing here?"

"Representing the British Government takes many forms," he said. Cate decided not to ask what particular part he was representing that morning.

"It's so awful for them," she whispered. "They have no explanation for this."

"Nobody has an explanation yet," he said. "But we will have one soon," Mycroft's voice held cold promise.

"Are those two yours?" she asked, nodding towards the raincoats.

"They are on the obvious side," Mycroft made a face. "But sometimes deterrence is the better part of action."

The service concluded uneventfully and the small crowd gradually dispersed.

"How are you getting home?" Mycroft looked at his fob watch.

"Came by train," Cate held up a card. "Return ticket."

"I can't tempt you with the offer of a lift?"

"Not necessary, Mycroft, thank you." Cate started walking to the cemetery gate, already on the phone to the taxi company.

"It's going to rain," Mycroft regarded the sky.

"I have an umbrella," Cate said.

"It's a long train-ride," he sounded philosophical. "It'll be late before you get home."

"I'm taking a few days leave," Cate offered. "It doesn't matter what time I get home."

"The main London stations can be dangerous places after dark," he reflected. "not a good place to be in alone."

"Go home, Mycroft," Cate shook her head at him. "I will be fine. Thank you for the offer."

"If you're quite sure ..?"

Cate looked into eyes of an especially artless blue. _How does he do that?_ "Goodbye, Mycroft," she smiled, walking towards the gate.

She stood, waiting just outside the main gate, exactly where the taxi had dropped her off. A distant rumble advised substantial rain was indeed on the way. Buttoning her coat and shaking out her collapsible umbrella, Cate waited.

In the back of the Jaguar, Mycroft waited. _So stubborn_ … He would not move until he had at least seen Cate into her taxi and enroute to the station. And then there'd be a dreary journey home.

Another roll of thunder arrived just before the first rain smacked onto the gravel path. Hoping the taxi would get there sooner rather than later, Cate prepared to batten down the hatches. It started to pour in earnest, hard dollops of water which stung the skin. The sky was very dark. Cate knew Mycroft's car hadn't moved, but she really didn't want to go and ask if she could change her mind because of a bit of rain.

The heavens opened. A grey cascade covered the sky, and Cate wished she'd got a stronger umbrella, as this one was not going to outlast the storm.

The Jaguar rolled silently to a halt beside her, the rear door opened.

"Sure I can't tempt you?" Mycroft's voice was infuriatingly benign. Exasperated, Cate climbed in, throwing her brolly on the floor.

"Did you arrange this?" she asked crabbily, pointing at the deluge. "It has your stamp."

His expression was inscrutable. "Such imagination, Professor Adin," his voice was innocence incarnate. "I assure you I have hardly any authority over the British weather." Mycroft being impossibly earnest was difficult to argue with. Cate abandoned trying to be cross.

"Heading for the M11, Sir," one of the raincoats advised. "Any preference as to route?"

"I'll leave the details to you," Mycroft said.

"In that case, we'll be stopping near Harlow for petrol," the man continued. "Should be in London around three o'clock."

"Which gives us time to get to know each other a little better," Mycroft's voice became confidential as he turned to Cate, settling back into the yielding leather.

"You think we should take the risk?" Her voice was equally intimate. Cate knew how to play this game. Flirting, politic or otherwise, was a highly academic skill that every scholar needed to cultivate. "Seems unwise, given our previous experiences."

"I think we're both sufficiently adult to risk a little danger," Mycroft smiled, realised he was responding to Cate's gambit, and further realising he wanted to. His smile lingered.

"Then let's be reckless," Cate blinked very slowly. "Tell me about your work."

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft paused. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me what you do," Cate curled up in the seat. "I want a picture of you at work."

"I stop things from going wrong and fix them when they do." He was enigmatic.

"What sort of things?"

"Significant things. Government things."

"National things?" A curious tone.

"Yes," Mycroft wondered how deep her question was going to go.

"_International_ things?" Cate's eyebrows lifted.

"Yes."

"_Dangerous_ international things?" Very quietly.

"Sometimes."

Cate frowned. "I knew you were a man in charge," she spoke reflectively. "I didn't really consider what the charge might be," she struggled for an appropriate superlative. "_Wow_."

"My turn," Mycroft turned his eyes to hers. "Tell me something you can't do," he tilted his head.

Cate smiled. "There are tons of things I can't do," she was unsure. "You need to be more specific."

"Important things you can't do," Mycroft pursed his mouth, looking at her face.

Cate saw the spot she was in. Either she fulfilled her part of the game or it ended right here. Couldn't back out now.

Mycroft thought that watching Cate decide to drop her guard entirely was mesmeric. He saw every nuance of the choice cross her features, felt the weight of decision as she lifted her eyes back to his.

"There are a number of important things I can't do," she offered slowly, looking at Mycroft as if she were presenting him with a gift. "I can't cheat," she paused, thinking. "I can't give in. I find it impossible to take the easy road, if it's the wrong road. I don't know how to be less than I can be," she paused again. "I don't give of myself easily," she added, looking directly at him. "Those kind of important things?"

He felt the oddest sensation. Cate had taken the conversation into a realm where nothing less that absolute integrity would do. Acknowledging she had upped the stakes in their little game, he smiled privately at the thought of her in a chess match. She would fight every second and never surrender. She might not be a brilliant strategist, but she would be lethal.

"Wow, yourself" he said. "Well played."

She grinned. "Do I have another turn?" a mischievous look.

Mycroft took a deep breath, knowing that, should he agree, whatever Cate asked for he had a moral imperative to provide. No. He couldn't possibly risk this.

"Very well," he heard himself say. "Ask."

Cate sat back in the seat and narrowed her eyes, appraising. "What frightens you?" she said. "Really frightens you, deep down, where nobody sees?"

_Christ_. Beyond a joke. Mycroft hadn't imagined this. He was silent, rethinking his assessment of Cate's strategic ability. He was silent for quite a long time.

"I fear chaos," he said, eventually, his voice tight. "I fear vulnerability." When he looked up, his face felt stiff and severe, Cate's expression was unquantifiable. Her eyes wide in the grey afternoon light as she held herself very still. He felt the momentary brush of her fingertips across the back of his hand.

"_Hello_, Mycroft Holmes," she breathed. "It's good to finally meet you."

Her lips curved in a friendly smile and his lungs picked up the slack. This was strong medicine and not entirely comfortable. Mycroft found himself outplayed where he was usually the victor, but it was again his turn. Cate's smile turned apprehensive as she met his gaze. Sucking in a breath, she nodded. "Ask," she said.

"Tell me," Mycroft said carefully, "what you want."

Her eyes widened briefly. Both of them knew she would speak the unconditional truth; neither knew what she was going to say. Cate examined her nails and stared out the window at the passing treeline before answering.

"I want several things," she said, matter-of-factly. "I want success; I want comfort; I want security." Her voice was firm. "Those things I can provide for myself," she said. "I also want …" she searched for the right words. "To know someone who will give me the things I cannot find alone."

"What kind of things?"

Cate looked into two very blue eyes. "Romance, affection, play, argument," she laughed faintly, ridiculing her own expectations. "I don't want much, do I?"

"You don't mention love," Mycroft was curious. "Most people would."

"I don't believe in romantic love," Cate's smile changed a little. "I don't believe it exists except as a human construct."

"That's an intellectual argument, not a subjective one," he observed.

"It's the only argument I have," Cate shrugged. "I've never been in love, so I can't validate it empirically or anecdotally."

"You've never been in love?" Mycroft was doubtful. "Never?"

"Nope," Cate shook her head. "Lovers, yes," she shrugged, "Love, no."

Engaged despite himself, and about to quiz her experiences on the field of Eros, Mycroft felt the car begin to slow as they turned off the motorway for Birchanger Green services. It was hard to believe an hour had passed already. So much for a dreary journey.

Pulling into the Shell station, one raincoat got out to refuel the sedan, the other stayed behind the wheel with the handbrake off.

"I need to find a loo," Cate was already opening her door. "Won't be long." Mycroft felt he could hardly stop her, but relaxed a little when he realised the driver already had an eye on her.

Returning, Cate had almost reached the car when she hear the loud screech of tyres on cement, and saw first one, then a second, dark-coloured four-by-four, hurtle through the service station. One skidded virtually sideways as it approached the front of the Jaguar, as the second angled in from behind, effectively blocking escape from that direction. Cate heard Mycroft's driver curse loudly. Then everything went into slow-motion.

Both raincoats were now outside the car, one down on one knee with a visible hand gun, shouting something at the occupants of the nearest intruder. The other had moved away to stand concealed behind a concrete pillar with a clear view of the space between the Jaguar and everything else. His gun was also very much in view. The second incoming car, a Porsche Cayenne, had juddered to a spinning halt behind the Jaguar, and Cate heard doors slamming against bodywork as masked men piled out. Men with masks and guns.

Oh dear God._ Not again._

There was more shouting, loud yelling, and she watched as Mycroft's guards put their guns on the ground and their hands in the air. They couldn't dare risk a shot with she and Mycroft so close to the petrol bowsers. Cate felt first relief as she realised nobody would be shot. Then she froze as her wrist was grabbed and she was dragged bodily into the front passenger seat of the sedan.

"Quickly!" Mycroft had the engine racing and was already pulling out of the station before Cate had even touched the seatbelt. She hear several distinct _cracks_ from behind them, as things struck the rear window. _Bullets_. Part of her mind acknowledged that the car must have bullet-proof windows. Emerging from the momentary trance, Cate hung on for dear life as Mycroft zigzagged the car like a madman, avoiding other cars, people and anything remotely flammable.

"We're leaving your guards?" Cate said, half in the front passenger floor-well.

"If they're still alive, they'll be safe in a few minutes," Mycroft focused on the road ahead. "Eyes everywhere," he muttered, hitting eighty as he careened away from the services area. Looking behind them, Cate watch the leading Porsche move to follow.

"I think we're going to have company," she said.

"Not if I can lose them in this intersection," Mycroft gritted his teeth as the Jaguar screamed at his pitiless handling. Cate was hanging on to anything at hand, and starting to feel a little dizzy after taking a bend on, she would later swear, only two wheels, as every one of the engine's five litres thrashed beneath the unaccustomed abuse. The shadowing car was gone. Away from the motorway, they found themselves in one of the less well lit service lanes. Mycroft swerved the sedan hard onto the kerb. Pulling out his Blackberry and stabbing several buttons, he waited for a response. And waited. Less than an hour from London and nobody was home.

"_Jammed_," he growled. "Someone is going to extreme lengths to stop me from doing what I'm doing, and I've had about enough of it." Returning the phone to an inner pocket, Mycroft turned to Cate.

"This could get awkward," he said. "It's me they're after, and I don't think I want you in any situation that might end badly. You should get out here and walk back to the petrol station." Fishing in another pocket, Mycroft produced a simple white card. "Here," he said, putting it in Cate's hand. "Call this number and tell them what's happened, they'll take care of you."

Cate listened carefully to everything Mycroft said and then, taking the card, stuck it in her coat.

"If you think I'm going to desert, you're not half as clever as you imagine you are, Mycroft Holmes," she stated flatly. "And I am not about to trust my safety to a bunch of strangers who have no knowledge of me and even less interest in my welfare." Cate was deadly serious. "I told you earlier I don't take the easy road," she added, "so tell me what I can do to help, but don't tell me to leave."

Mycroft weighed his options. None of them were spectacular, but at least if they stuck together, he would be dealing with reality, rather than worrying about possibilities.

"Very well," he agreed. "On the proviso that you will do exactly what I say to do, when I say and without argument."

Cate nodded. "What can I do to help?" she asked. "Want me to keep trying the phone?" Pulling out her own Galaxy, she experimented on a few numbers, but, like Mycroft, had no success. "Give my yours," she said, holding out her hand for the Blackberry. "I can keep trying them both at different times to see if anything gets through, and you can concentrate on trying to kill us with your mad driving." She gave him a helpful smile.

"Ah," Mycroft leaned over and took her Samsung. Flipping the back open, he extracted the sim card, snapped it in half and threw the pieces out of the window. "My apologies," he said, returning the device to Cate. "These things can be tracked."

Cate looked at him, aghast. "All my contact numbers are on that, all my students … everything!"

Mycroft said nothing, simply looked at her.

"What about your phone? Can't that be tracked too?"

"Every one of these," he lifted the Blackberry, "has an international identity number which can be traced by the police. It is virtually impossible to remove or disguise this number, and, needless to say, is an utterly illegal act to even attempt."

Cate thought for a second. "So naturally," she said. "Yours has been removed and is therefore untraceable."

"Naturally."

"Which is why you get to keep your phone, and why I have to reload an oodleplex of digits into a new sim card."

Mycroft tipped his head apologetically. "Life is rarely fair."

"Oh well," Cate was philosophic. "What's the plan?" she asked, looking at him expectantly. "Charge the guns? Find a secret entrance into the fort? Steal their horses? What are we going to do?"

"I think you were born a hundred years too late," handing over his phone, Mycroft couldn't help but smile. "A few more Cates and we'd have saved Singapore in 42'." Taking a moment to scan the Jaguar's status, he saw that the petrol tank was just below half-full, but that everything else looked as good as could be expected.

"We have three courses of action," he said. "We can stay here and do nothing and hope my people locate us before the drivers of those two four-by-fours; second, we can backtrack onto the motorway and hope we're not spotted before we head off into an entirely different direction, or third, we can make a dash for it along the planned route."

"Are you a good driver?" Cate looked momentarily serious.

Mycroft assumed his usual superior mien as he rested both hands on the wheel and turned to her. "I am a first-rate driver and excel in defensive driving," he peered through the windows, looking around in the darkening light. "And the offensive kind," he added in a gritty undertone. "Are you worried?" he asked. "You can still leave if you've changed your mind."

Saying nothing, Cate sat more comfortably in the seat and buckled herself in. "I think staying here is more dangerous than moving," she offered. "And if we moved, they might not be able to jam your phone, so I vote for moving."

Mycroft looked down, his lips twitching. "This car is not a democracy," he said, entirely failing to sound stern. "I will do what I must, do you understand?"

"Then, lay on, MacDuff," Cate folded her arms and waited.

Mycroft nodded. "Staying here is more dangerous than moving, so I believe we should move," ignoring the scandalised expression on Cate's face, he continued. "The planned route has clearly been compromised, so we'll backtrack to the M25 and attempt to come in from a North-Westerly direction," he paused, thinking. "With luck, they won't be ready for us to make such a wide detour." Checking to ensure the GPS was off, he turned back to Cate. "Can you read a map?"

Throwing him a disdainful glance, Cate dug around in the glove compartment for anything Home Counties. "Queen's Scout," she muttered, rummaging. "Ten Tors, three times. Occasional climber. What was the question?"

Nodding understanding, Mycroft started the Jaguar and eased it back onto the road, heading towards the nearest on-ramp.

"What if it's not the phone that's being tracked?" Cate suddenly asked. "What if it's the car?"

"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "Wondered about that myself. It would explain a great deal, however," he paused and checked ahead for any lurking Porsche off-roaders, "if that's the case, there's nothing we can do about it now."

Back on the M11 and about to head off down the A120, cutting across to the A10 at Ware, Mycroft suddenly swerved violently back into the main stream of traffic. Cate was surprised by the unexplained change of plan until she spotted two dark vehicles gunning up the lane behind them.

"Well that answers that," she exhaled. "It's probably the car. What now?"

"Now you need to hold tight," Mycroft had a curious look on his face: part detached resolve, part feral satisfaction. _He's enjoying this_, Cate managed to think before the Jaguar snarled through the gears, pushing her back into the seat as the speedometer climbed and climbed.

When they reached 100 mph., Cate started to feel uneasy as Mycroft was changing lanes almost faster than she could track. But the two shadows were managing to stay with them. _It's something out of Hollywood_, she thought. _We're in a film_. _This isn't real_.

As the needle rose beyond 110 mph., she looked across at Mycroft who seemed amazingly relaxed. His hands were easy on the wheel. His face was utterly calm, although his eyes were riveted onto the road ahead.

By the time the gauge showed 120 mph., Cate's heart was thumping, not because Mycroft was driving badly, but because, by comparison, everyone else was. She wanted to close her eyes, but knew she couldn't. Swallowing, Cate determined to be as calm about ending up in a screaming pile of burning steel as was he. Taking a slow, deep breath, she forced herself to relax back into the seat.

The Jaguar sat at 127 mph. when Mycroft noticed the first flashing blue-and-red lights behind him. Maintaining his breakneck speed, he hugged the centre of his lane and avoided, as far as was possible, any interaction with any other vehicle, although by now, those who could were giving him the widest berth they could. He could no longer see their dark shadows, and hoped that was the end of them. The getting of a police escort, by whatever means, was in their favour rather than against. As the, now three, police patrol vehicles came within shouting distance, Mycroft decelerated the sedan to a slow gallop and then to a crawl. Pulling to a dead stop in the emergency lane, Mycroft exhaled long and deep.

Cate held out his Blackberry. "It's for you," she said.

###

Escorting Cate to her apartment, Mycroft followed her into the kitchen as she filled the kettle.

"They've found a tracking device on the Jaguar," he said, putting his phone away. "I am reliably in formed it was placed there sometime in the last two days."

"How do they know?" Cate made tea.

"That was when the car was last swept for devices," he said.

"Your car is swept for bugs every week?"

"Twice a week, usually," Mycroft nodded to himself. "Which means whoever planted the tracing mechanism knew my security routines, as well as being able to access a restricted government parking facility," he frowned. "This entire situation is pointing in a direction I had hoped it would not."

"But your guards are safe?"

"Yes, aside from a severe dent to their professional pride, they're fine. Once we managed to remove ourselves from the petrol station, they were no longer a threat and therefore no longer in danger."

Lifting a bottle of good Hennessy, Cate poured two measures and handed one to Mycroft, her fingers momentarily warm beneath his. She raised her glass in salute.

"To a superb driver," she said, smiling. "I think you saved my life today," she added.

Clinking the crystal, Mycroft smiled. "Delighted to be of service," his voice was ironic. "You handled the situation well," he added. "You seemed entirely composed in the car despite the excessive speed."

"It's special training lecturers are given," she looked serious. "We're conditioned to withstand the most harrowing of academic disasters ." Cate waved her hand. "Compared to those, this afternoon was a walk in the park."

"Singapore _and_ Burma," he said, straight-faced.

"Although," Cate laughed, "next time I'm chased along a motorway at the speed of light, I hope you'll be doing the driving."

Mycroft peered at her. "Next time? You assume there will be a further incident involving a high-speed chase in my car?"

Cate's face lost expression. Starting to say something, he could see her change her mind. "Perhaps we'll not have an opportunity to meet again," she said eventually. "In which case, thank you for today. It was … enlightening."

Mycroft knew Cate wasn't talking about the car chase. And he was fairly sure this would not be the last time they met. Inhaling the brandy's piquant aroma, he also realised that, despite the day's _sturm und drang_, he didn't want it to be over.

"Omelette," he said, thinking. "Eggs?"

Understanding, Cate hinted at a new smile. "Mushrooms and peppers, too." She pointed to a steel rack of hanging pans. "Choose your weapon."

Slipping out of his jacket, Mycroft handed it to her.

"Then time for you to quit the battlefield," he murmured. "This is men's work."

Laughing, Cate passed him a long apron as she headed over to an unobtrusive sound system.

"Do you have a preference for cooking music?" she asked, flipping through a handful of CDs.

"Nothing German with omelettes," Mycroft said. "it deflates them."

"I have just the thing, in that case," Cate fed a disc into the machine. In moments, the opening bars of Delibes' _Lakmé_ echoed through the space.

"I always think the duet works brilliantly with eggs," she walked back to examine Mycroft's efforts.

"_Au fine herbes_?" a raised eyebrow.

Sipping her cognac, she pointed. "Fresh in the window, dried in that cupboard."

Exploring the minor botanic garden inhabiting Cate's kitchen sill, Mycroft was gratified to discover all the Mediterranean necessities.

Setting the table, Cate smiled to herself as she heard the sound of a knife under stress accompanied by Chef and whistle. Removing some tiny bread rolls from the freezer, Cate had them steaming and on the table upon the very moment Mycroft announced that dinner was served.

And truly, he was a good cook. Sampling his culinary effort, Cate assessed the flavours and the texture.

"Nicely done," she said, breaking a roll. "One can always tell the value of a chef by the quality of his omelettes,' she advised, a teasing light in her eyes. "You can stay."

Giving Cate a mildly reproachful look, Mycroft rose above such plebeian assessment and selected a roll.

"This has olives in it," he observed, chewing.

"And the man wins a coconut," Cate sat back and giggled, the effects of a large brandy on an empty stomach starting to show.

Mycroft found himself smiling again. Really, he seemed to be doing rather a lot of it. He comforted himself with the thought that he could stop anytime he wanted.

Carrying refreshed brandies, they sat on the sofas after the meal.

"_Whew_," Cate went limp. "Thank goodness I don't have to get up for work in the morning," she added. "Not sure I would be much good after all this excitement."

Mycroft looked at her carefully. "Was today exciting for you?" he asked, curious.

"Are you mad?" Cate sat forward, her expression animated. "That was the most fun I've had in months."

"Fun?"

"Well," she considered, "not the funeral or the part where your raincoats were in danger," she said. "But all the rest of it was amazing."

"You found the notion of imminent death enjoyable."

"Not just the imminent death part," to Mycroft's ears, Cate sounded a little too relaxed. On two brandies.

"You can't handle strong drink," he announced, smiling into his glass.

"Absolutely not," she admitted emphatically, waggling an empty tumbler. "Not this stuff," she added, looking entirely too cheerful. "But I didn't mention that before because it's not _really_ important."

"And were there other things you didn't mention?" Mycroft knew it was wrong, but he was finding the conversation difficult to resist.

"Lots of things," Cate dropped her voice to sound mysterious.

"Such as?"

"Such as I can't remember meeting anyone like you before," she smiled happily. "Funny sort of government man you are."

"And that is good?" Mycroft realised he was going to hell for this.

"Very good," Cate nodded. "very nice man from the government."

"How nice?" He was going to burn.

"Very, _very_ nice," Cate yawned. "I think I have to go to bed soon."

"And on _that_ note," Mycroft stood. "I must make my farewells." Offering Cate a hand, he assisted her up from the sofa. She really was quite light: no wonder proofed alcohol went to her head.

"Thank you for saving my life, Mycroft," she said quietly, sliding a warm arm gently around his neck and planting a velvety kiss on his cheek.

Stepping out into the cool evening, Mycroft still felt the touch of Cate's arm and the feel of her close to him. It was not an unpleasant sensation.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five:**_

_The Charity Bash – Dare to Hope – __Trouvez le Corps – The _Man Who Lost His Heart – Kumidaiko – In the Dark – Dinner at Holmes – Unexpected Behaviour – A Bombshell.

_#_

_#_

Eight tickets arrived in the post for Greg Lestrade, with a note.

_A small thank you for you for the tea. Please pass some of these onto Mycroft Holmes for me, as I am unsure how to reach him by mail. Best wishes, Cate Adin._

Looking closely at the tickets, Lestrade saw they were for the big World Sight charity bash at the Prince Edward Theatre. All the seats were in the centre of row ten, Orchestra section. He had no idea if they were any good, _but a free night out at a fancy gig wasn't going to hurt_. Putting four of them into an envelope, he wrote Mycroft's name on the front and stuck it in his pocket.

Sherlock and John were still tracking Michael Stenton and had located a man who claimed he saw someone meeting Stenton's description being bundled into a dark-coloured van on the night he went missing. With few other details to go on, not even Mycroft's access to CCTV was any real assistance as the merest glimpse of the van did not disclose any revealing characteristics. They had more luck tracking down John's old mercenary connections, although without fail, every one they met was reluctant to discuss matters connected to _Ajdaha_. Either they knew too little, or they knew too much.

Thus they returned to the one crime they knew had a genuine link to the Ukraine – the Toska murder. Meeting up with Lestrade to see what progress had been made, it appeared that the murder had been in the restaurant only moments before the killing in the back lane. Several staff had given descriptions but, either through fear or deliberate misdirection, not one of them matched the others. The killer was short and tall; dark-haired and greying; swarthy, fair and even, from one particular nervy individual, Asiatic. The only thing they could agree on was the gender. It was all incredibly frustrating. Dead ends, literally, everywhere.

Meeting Lestrade, Sherlock asked to have any materials connected in any way to other activities of migrants from the Balkan regions – a significant number since the early nineties. Greg Lestrade protested that he didn't have the staff necessary to plough through that many electronic records – there had to be hundreds, possibly thousands, involved.

Sighing, John had the feeling that he might be up for a long night of cross-checking police-records against potential leads.

"You planning on meeting your brother anytime soon?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"I rarely plan on meeting Mycroft," Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "He simply appears like a dark cloud."

"It's just that I have to pass some tickets along to him from Cate Adin," he added. "She didn't know where to send them herself."

"Tickets?"

"Four of them for that fancy charity do at the Prince Edward on Saturday," Lestrade pulled the envelope out of his pocket.

"Specifically for my brother?"

"Well, Lestrade said, "Professor Adin sent a whole pile of them and asked me to pass some along to Mycroft, so are you going to be seeing him later or not?"

"I can see he receives them," Sherlock caught the envelope between two fingers, a curious smile on his lips. "Will she be attending?"

"No idea, Sherlock," the Detective Inspector said. "You'll need to find that out yourself."

###

The small boat bobbed and rocked, occasionally bumping against boulders in the water. Other than the sound of the river and the distant cry of hunting hawks, everything was quiet. Leysa dared begin to hope.

Lifting her head cautiously about the gunwale, she looked about. There was nothing, but she could see they were already a good way towards the jetties of the closest village. If God was willing, they might survive this yet.

###

"I have absolutely no intention of attending such an event," Mycroft was firm. "I have far too much work to do."

"It is on a Saturday night," John pointed out. "Surely you can take some time off."

"John, the vicissitudes of international accord do not pause on specific days of the week, regardless of how much we might wish it."

"Catherine Adin may be attending," Sherlock looked at Mycroft beneath lowered lids.

"And Professor Adin's attendance or otherwise bears what relevance to me, exactly?"

"Other than the fact she sent you the tickets, none at all," Sherlock smiled brightly, "Although, if you're not planning on using them, I think I might attend. Apparently there is a magic act which has critics around the world swearing it cannot be done, yet it is."

"A magic act?" John grinned. "Always enjoyed those, especially when they vanish entire buildings and jets. Quite astonishing, really."

Giving his flatmate a pitying glance, Sherlock nodded absently.

"Then we should not waste the tickets," he said. "They are, after all, some of the best in the house." Pulling one ticket out of the envelope, Sherlock slid it into Mycroft's breast pocket.

"In case you change your mind," he said, his features devoid of anything but sincere brotherly affection. Watching the exchange, John wondered what the hell Sherlock was up to now.

###

Mycroft had been sent more photographs. Same subjects as before, but this time he was more concerned was the heavy red cross drawn from corner-to-corner on each photo. The back of Stenton's photo had a date on it. Of two days ago. He had not been in work since Monday, and Mycroft feared the worst. The fact that none of the authorities at his command had been effective in locating his junior colleague, or even managing to trace him beyond a certain point, was incredibly vexing.

"Vanished?" Sherlock had looked sceptical, "or nowhere to be found?" he said in a silky tone.

"Michael Stenton has worked for me in excess of seven years," Mycroft stated. "He has had upwards of eleven security audits, the last four of which has warranted a level-Zetta clearance, only three grades below my own."

"And you are convinced he would never betray you?"

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "I cannot imagine him a traitor," he said eventually, "although I have been wrong before."

John looked uncertain. "You admit to being wrong?" he said, half joking.

"Only the once," Mycroft added with a grim smile. "And I want to make certain that data does not change," he said, turning to his brother. "I need you to find Stenton and find him quickly," he paused. "And Sherlock," he added, "please don't treat this situation as a game. Lives are in the balance, here."

Tracking Stenton led to a gambling den off Jermyn Street on Monday night, but the trail was cold and the man hadn't been sighted or heard from in any way since then. Nor had the police yet recovered a body.

The date on the photo was the day Stenton went to the illegal casino, now under the highest level of scrutiny, so Mycroft had to assume that the man was either captive or dead. If he were dead, then why, and who was responsible? If captive, then for what purpose?

What seemed to make things even worse, was that Sherlock had traced the access process by which Mycroft's confidential files had been removed from their secure storage areas. Someone on the inside had accessed the area in the middle of the night. That person knew all the right passcodes and all the security traps.

Turning to his brother, the same name came to them both in quiet concurrence, "_Stenton_."

"Torture, do you think?" Mycroft looked bleak.

"Either that or some other effective persuasion," Sherlock was thoughtful. "Relatives? Pets? Habits? Deviancy?"

"To my knowledge, none," Mycroft shook his head.

"Torture, then," Sherlock looked bored. "Bit of a waste," he added. "I assume the man has, or had, extensive knowledge of your operations?"

If possible, Mycroft looked even more unhappy.

"_Cherchez l'homme_," Sherlock shrugged. "_Trouvez le corps_." Thinking, he asked "Are Stenton's DNA records available?"

"About to find out," Mycroft was already on the phone.

###

Mrs Hudson took the last ticket and was poring over the programme with John.

"Says here there's an act with snakes," she made a face. "Not keen on snakes," she said.

"I didn't realise magicians didn't call themselves that anymore." John pointed to the page. "It's either _Illusionist_ or _Mentalist._"

"Ooo look, Japanese Drummers," Mrs Hudson sat up, delighted. "I've seen them before, they're ever so good, " she said. "It's all martial arts and drumming."

Lying stretched-out in the next seat, Sherlock seemed comatose. Eyes closed, unmoving, silent, he was absorbing the sounds and smells around him, tuning his senses to note the smallest change in air-current. Ah, _something_.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said, eyes still closed.

"Sherlock," Mycroft nodded greetings to John and Martha Hudson before taking his allocated seat.

"Changed your mind, I see," Sherlock sounded deathly bored.

"All quiet on the Western front," Mycroft flicked through his own copy of the programme. "Anything interesting on tonight?"

"Other than a performance by the dance studio frequented by Professor Adin?" Sherlock wore an almost invisible smile. "That," he said, "and the _Man Who Lost His Heart_."

"What?" Mycroft sounded sharp.

"The name of the magical act," Sherlock flicked his fingers. "The illusionist is to have his heart removed during the performance," he gave an appreciative blink. "Clever chap if he can do it."

Mycroft grunted non-commitally.

"_In the Dark_."

"What is?" Mycroft was genuinely lost now.

"The title of the dance segment from Cate Adin's company."

"Is she in it?" Mycroft sounded almost as indifferent as his brother.

"You didn't inquire?"

"And why would I do that?" Mycroft continued to peruse the programme.

"Security reasons?"

Mycroft gave a fleeting smile. "My security is well under control now," he said. "But thank you for the concern."

The final bell had sounded and everyone had taken their seat. The lights dimmed.

According to the programme, there were to be twelve acts in total, with a central intermission. A fund-raising drive on behalf of World Sight, all profits were to go to eye-health in developing countries, thus each act was themed to connect in some way to the overall nature of the organisation. A brilliant young singer brought tears to the eyes of some in her song about the 'hidden' things in life; a world-famous comedy duo did an amazing skit with the theatre lights out; several theatre 'knights' performed Desdemona's heart-wrenching death-scene, their collective skill and style winning resounding applause. The Japanese Taiko drummers were next, filling the large theatre with massive percussive beats, as the Kumidaiko sequence entitled _Shared Visions_ thundered and volleyed like an elemental force around the enclosed galleries. Such was the raw power and effect of their performance, that the entire audience rose in ovation at the end.

The next act, _In the Dark_, was described as a modern dance. Mycroft had no idea if Cate were personally involved in this, although that she had sent tickets suggested she was, at the very least, involved with the backstage co-ordination. He wondered if he might be able to thank her in person.

Instead of leaving the stage as had the other performers, the Kumidaiko players moved their drums to either sides of the stage, arranging them in two large half-circles. With great ceremony, four drummers donned long and elaborate scarlet blindfolds. They were going to be drumming in the dark. The theatre susurrated with faint wonderings.

When the audience was finally silent and still, the drums began. Lightly at first, a single drumbeat at the pace of a gentle walk.

From each side of the stage, a group of three male dancers, clad entirely in black differentiated only by a wide strip of scarlet fabric around the torso, moved, at slow-march towards the opposite group, deliberate and measured. Crossing the stage, each group threaded through the other, coming to a stop with a gap of several feet between them. Facing the audience and assuming a cruciform stance, they waited, unmoving. The drums increased fractionally in number and volume, as an accent light stabbed into the gap, picking out a single scarlet-clad figure, bent and curled, centre-stage.

As the beat again picked up, the figure uncurled, standing slowly, raising both arms skyward, then in a cruciform, to reveal a skin-tight costume of crimson and a long matching blindfold. The dancer was going to be performing in the dark too. Mycroft took a shallow breath: it was Cate.

The beat of the drums was still biddable and unhurried. Cate turned stage-right and, in time with the rhythm, went through a series of delicate turns, deliberate pirouettes and arabesques, assisted individually by her male partners. A similar series of steps was repeated with the group on the opposite side. Returning to the dead-centre, the drums paused for a space of several long beats, there was utter and complete silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

With a massive simultaneous pounding of all drums, Cate launched herself into the air and was easily caught be the group of dancers on her right. This time, instead of delicate steps and dainty turns, all movement was extreme, with violent cascading tumbles, incredible power-lifts and, at almost every second, a sense that the scarlet dancer was about to be dashed to the stage.

At some point, the orchestra joined in, or at least, the percussive section, although there was a strong element of digitised synthesiser and bass guitar in there as well. The increasing volume of sound was matched by a growing wildness in the acrobatic skirmish on stage.

With the auditorium mostly in darkness, a new beat began in addition to the others. This one called for a different type of movement, and as lights illuminated a large construction of steel scaffolding behind them, Cate and two of her male partners began climbing up steel bars – each reach, each lift of the foot in exact concert with one or more drumbeats. It was incredible choreography: dominant, harsh sound pulsed around and round, forcing movement on each dancer; making them climb.

About a dozen feet in the air, the climbing frame levelled out into a stable linear platform running squarely across the stage. Everything else was darkest black; only the three dancers could be seen: the scaffolding, the other performers, even the drummers were now in shadow. It was on this platform that the dancing began to intensify and escalate, as the three vaulted and flung themselves around to the beat without, it seemed, any concept of the floor so far beneath them.

Mycroft realised his hands were damp and his abdominal muscles had tensed. This performance might be very clever, but it was far from enjoyable. There was a real risk of serious injury, or worse. And Cate was still wearing the blindfold. She was doing all of these ridiculous, dangerous things without even being able to see if she were to fall.

Mycroft's throat was burn-dry as he forced himself to sit back into his seat. There was nothing he could do about the situation. He wondered if closing his eyes would make the spectacle easier or harder to endure.

The beat rose once again, faster and faster, as Cate's two partners descended from the platform, leaving her alone in the spotlight as she spun, somersaulted and twisted recklessly, almost suicidally. As the music and drumming grew to a point of crescendo, Mycroft watched Cate step to the exact centre of the platform and turn her back to the audience, arms aloft. At a precise beat, she spread her arms wide and launched off the platform in a flamboyant swan dive.

Blindfolded.

Backwards.

Caught by the male dancers a split-second before crashing into the stage itself, Cate was swung back onto her feet into a dramatic final pose.

Everything stopped. Nobody moved.

The drums fell silent.

The theatre was noiseless. The lights came up.

The audience exploded. Screams. Shouts. Whistles.

The dances aligned, and bowed. Cate, in the centre, held hands with the men either side. The drummers stood and bowed. The theatre was a cacophony of whistles and calls for more and the endless, infinite, roaring applause.

Stepping forward, the drummers and Cate simultaneously pulled off their blindfolds, to stand blinking a little in the sudden light. Everyone bowed again.

The applause got even louder. There was a rising chorus of people demanding more.

Sharing a series of glances, the group nodded and a hand was raised to the drummers who also nodded agreement. There was to be an encore.

Again, the drumming began as a soft, solitary beat. Same pace as a heartbeat. Drops of rain in single time. The applause slowed and thinned. People seated themselves. There was an air of expectancy.

The dancers remained in a single file, parallel to the edge of the stage. As one, they all picked up strips of black cloth from the ground and tied them into blindfolds. This time, everyone was in the dark.

The drums lifted: a little faster, little louder. The dancer at far stage right spoke a single, quiet word.

Once second later and the entire group began a series of interlinked tumbles, beginning with a one-handed back-flip on the right diagonal. Each moved flowed effortlessly into the next. None of the group broke formation. It was an amazing display of synchronised gymnastics to a percussive beat.

The drums dictated the speed and the power of each move. Faster and faster.

A final brief crescendo, and the dance line somersaulted back into their exact starting places, but now, they were all bent at the waist.

Everything stopped. Drums, dancers, sounds. Everything.

And again, the audience erupted in a riot of appreciation.

Mycroft allowed himself to breathe once more. He hadn't realised he had stopped. He had no real comprehension of why he had stopped, but the tightness in his chest and the pounding in his head reminded him that breathing was, on the whole, preferred. Analysing the experience, he decided that, as performances went, he could have done without that particular one.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft looked up, directly into Sherlock's face. There was an awareness in his brother's eyes: an acknowledgement of a shift in the status quo.

"Professor Adin has a unique skillset," Sherlock said.

"Indeed," Mycroft had to clear his throat again, as it wasn't working properly. "One wonders what else she may be capable of."

Returning his gaze to the line of dancers still bowing and grinning, Sherlock was introspective. One did indeed wonder.

Leaving Sherlock and the others to watch the illusionist lose his heart, Mycroft excused himself before everyone settled down, and escaped to the bar. Several minutes and a large single malt later, he felt sensation returning as his muscles relaxed.

Off to his left. Mycroft heard a burst of sound and laughter through an opened door, as a group of people walked through the foyer, heading to the main entrance. Discerning Cate's voice, he turned in time to catch her attention.

Waving to the others as they left, she walked towards the bar, grinning.

"You came! Did you see?" she asked, excited and full of life.

Mycroft gave a brief nod. "I saw."

His tone gave him away. Cate looked closely. "You didn't enjoy the performance?"

"In truth," he said, "No."

"Why not?" she said. "It took us weeks to perfect."

"You were practicing those … _activities_ for weeks? Mycroft's face soured.

"What," Cate demanded, hands palm-up, "is the problem?"

The heat of the Scotch still roiling around inside him, Mycroft faced her.

"It was bloody dangerous," he muttered. "Foolhardy and dangerous. You could have been killed."

Cate stood for a moment, absorbing everything. "You were worried I'd hurt myself?"

Waving at the barman, Mycroft ordered another malt. "Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"You were worried that I'd fall or be dropped, and I'd be hurt?"

"Yes. Drink?"

"No thank you, I haven't eaten yet," Cate shook her head. "It's very considerate of you to worry yourself, but really, it was all entirely safe."

"It didn't look entirely safe," Mycroft rapidly emptied his glass. "Dinner?"

"I'm not exactly dressed to go out," Cate indicated her outfit of a linen blazer, t-shirt, faded cotton chinos and deck-shoes, influenced far more by comfort than fashion.

"My place, then," he said, throwing a ten-pound note on the bar. "You're not staying for the after party?"

"I'm not terribly comfortable in very large crowds of people," Cate made a face. "I've found it's better to leave before everyone else, so I don't have to keep arguing about it."

"My chariot awaits, " he nodded at the door, waiting for her to move.

"I haven't said yes to your invitation yet," Cate looked amused.

"_Yet_," Mycroft nodded towards the entrance. "But you were going to."

"Smartarse," Cate grumbled, smiling, heading to the outside.

As the driver took them along Shaftesbury Avenue, Mycroft interrogated her about the safety precautions during the performance.

"And there are nets all around the top," she said, "but they are so fine you can barely see them even if you're very close." She shrugged. "And those blindfolds didn't block much light out – we could see perfectly well with them on."

"But why were you the one to do the performance?" he said. "Were you really the best to do it?"

"Thank you for questioning my entire experience and ability at this," Cate chafed, "a gross insult for which you may later be called out."

"Were you the best?" Mycroft found himself smiling again.

No," she conceded, "but nobody else would make the final dive, even though everyone agreed the choreographer's idea was innovative and exciting."

"Who choreographed it?"

Cate had the grace to look sheepish. "Me," she admitted, grinning again. "Although in all fairness, I wasn't thinking of performing it myself when I did."

As the sedan pulled into the front of Mycroft's Georgian home, Cate noticed lights glowing from behind the beautifully arched and curtained windows.

"You have guests?" Cate was surprised he'd asked her to dine.

"My housekeeper likes to leave the lights on for me," Mycroft gave Cate a fatalistic look. "The woman feels I am in need of greater home comforts."

Standing in the main entrance, Cate was rather surprised to see an expensive-looking Bianchi road bike. Mycroft? _A cyclist_? Cate rapidly revised her assumptions about him.

"Come in and relax," he called, walking ahead towards the rear of the house. Following him through to the back of the ground-floor, Cate whistled softly as she looked around. It was a very serious kitchen.

Everything was either steel or granite or leather. A distinctly male preserve, with military-straight rows of knives and steel utensils. An entire wall was devoted to a range of cookware on which Cate saw the Swiss diamond insignia. So: Mycroft knew his pots and pans. Looking around, she appraised the sleek lines and the abundance of space. She itched to do something.

Turning, she caught Mycroft watching her with a pleased expression. "You like this?"

"I _envy_ you this," Cate ran her fingers along the cool granite counter, estimating the amount of mess she could make at any one time. It was unfairly tempting.

"What would you like for dinner?" Mycroft investigated the refrigerator. "Mrs Compton insists on loading me up with all sorts of edibles."

"Something quick and not too heavy, if you don't mind," Cate pressed her middle. "I'm still a bit wound-up from the performance, but if I don't eat soon, I shall end up in a heap."

"Right then," Mycroft selected a large and seasoned wok, spinning it like a tennis-racquet, and pointed her to the fridge. "Choose what you like and we'll fling together something mysterious and oriental."

"You are the oddest man," Cate laughed, raiding the crisper for mange touts, shallots, peppers and bok choy. "Noodles?"

"Second shelf," Mycroft was at the burner, setting the wok to heat.

Cate found fresh figs. "You like these?" she asked holding them up.

"I love figs," he said. "Grilled, with honey and perhaps a nibble of stilton?"

"Right you are," Cate searched for the accoutrements, bringing everything to the bench top. "What else can I do?" she looked around, still itching to make a mess.

"How are you with a knife?"

"I'd rather be slow and safe, than swift and down a finger," she smiled. "But I'm happy to do my bit for Queen and Country," she said, looking at the extravagant selection of Japanese knives arrayed in perfect formation. They looked surgically sharp.

"Bottle of something chilled in the 'fridge, I believe," Mycroft nodded to glasses in a tall, backlit cabinet. "This calls for white, I feel."

Investigating, Cate discovered that Mycroft had a significant number of chilled somethings, and pulled out a New Zealand Marlborough.

"These are usually very pleasant," she read the vineyard details. "Although I miss the corks," she admitted. "Not quite the same, screw caps."

While Mycroft was whittling away at strips of raw beef, Cate collected two hock glasses and poured some of the aromatic wine. It was lovely. She was beginning to come down after the strain of the performance, and now Cate just felt warm and tired and hungry.

Handing a glass to Mycroft, she stole a piece of carrot, only to barely avoid choking as she saw the deeply-wronged expression on his face.

"Security precaution," she coughed, laughing. "Checking for toxins."

Mycroft looked at Cate's teasing face and something fundamental moved inside him. It caught his breath and made him swallow. He was momentarily light-headed with the force of it. Three different but very intense effects had him almost gasping. He head fizzed with it. His heart pounded, and the rest went directly to his groin. With supreme effort, none of these things showed on his face, but he stood, frozen, for several seconds.

"Are you alright?" Cate stopped laughing and looked concerned.

"Ah, fine, thank you," Mycroft extemporised. _Lied_. "Just trying to remember if I've missed anything."

"_Ahh_," Cate stretched and sipped her wine. "I feel so _good_."

Suddenly busy with his knife, Mycroft suggested Cate select some appropriate music. "In the main lounge," Mycroft nodded, "along the far wall."

Cate located the extensive music collection with little problem. It was larger than her own. Mycroft's collection of both traditional and modern classical pieces was a joy to behold, and there were several recordings that had Cate raising her eyebrows. Selecting something appropriate for her mood, Cate slid in a CD of Khachaturian's _Spartacus_, forwarding to the adagio. The luscious, haunting melodies flowed around her and Cate's eyes closed in near-bliss as she soaked up the sound. For some reason, she felt incredibly happy: perhaps it was the endorphins following the performance; perhaps it was the feeling that it was a special night, it wasn't clear. But she felt wonderful.

It took only minutes for Mycroft to actually cook the meal once the preparation had been completed. Serving decent helpings onto white bone china, Mycroft took the plates to the breakfast bar.

"Dinner is served," he announced.

Sweeping back into the kitchen, Cate poured them both more wine. Grabbing a fork, she dug into the steaming plate of stir-fry and luxuriated in the heat and fragrance of it.

"This," she mumbled around the steaming food, "is _fantastic_. You Sir, are an excellent cook."

They finished the wine as Mycroft took her on a brief tour of his home. Cate had expressed an interest in the period features, one of the things that Mycroft also appreciated.

"This place is huge," Cate commented. "And you live here alone?"

"Indeed," Mycroft sipped his wine. "I've been by myself for so long, I rarely think about it."

"You never married?" Cate looked at the gold ring on his right hand.

Observing her glance, Mycroft rolled the ring around his finger. "An old story," he smiled a shade sadly. "An old debt."

"I must go," Cate suddenly saw the time. "I have a great deal to do in the morning."

"On a Sunday?"

"The Academy never sleeps," she said. Mycroft thought Cate's world was a lot like his own in that respect. He stood. I'll have my driver take you home," he said, putting on his jacket.

"Mycroft, there's no need for you to come as well," Cate raised her eyebrows. "Thank you for a lovely dinner, but please stay here and catch up on your own sleep," she added.

"I have had the most amazing day and a great evening," Smiling, she walked up to Mycroft and gave him a hug. "Really memorable." Cate kissed him again on the cheek.

All the earlier sensations flooded abruptly back, and Mycroft stiffened, jerking fractionally as he strove for control over his wayward responses.

Cate immediately stepped back, full of apologies, her face turning pink as she misinterpreted his behaviour.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, mortified. "I did not intend to impose …" Cate paused. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

Walking swiftly to the front door, Cate was out and into the back of the Jaguar before he could calm the exigencies of his injudicious nervous system.

He swore softly, irritated at himself.

On the realisation of the cause for his self-irritation, he swore again.

###

Mycroft was flipping through lists of Eastern Europe cross-border movements when he received the call in his office. Apparently something had been sent to him through the post and it had been stopped by mail room security protocols. This usually meant either a bomb or something equally unfriendly.

Entering, he could see that the place had been emptied until the security people had completely checked the area against the possibility of additional threats.

"Over here, Sir," Mycroft was beckoned to a table upon which lay a small package.

"Bomb?" he asked quietly.

"No, Sir," the man screwed up his face. "Not as pleasant as a bomb, Sir."

Using two pencils and leaning over the now-opened package, Mycroft lifted back the wrapping paper to see a severed index finger. Male. Young-ish. Unblemished other than at the point of severance. No marks or calluses. Office worker. Local. Compression along the severed edges indicated it had been chopped off with something sharp and heavy.

"Do we have any idea to whom this belongs?" Mycroft asked.

"Not as yet, Sir, but the police are on their way and forensics will likely tell us what we need."

Waiting until Lestrade arrived, Mycroft took him aside.

"The finger may belong to a member of my staff, a man called Michael Stenton," Mycroft looked grim. "He disappeared over a week ago."

"Looks fresh," Lestrade peered at the lonely digit. "Can't have been in this box long. Forensics should be able to tell us if it's your man."

"There is a faint chance he may still be alive," Mycroft said, "I need your every resource on this one."

A noncommittal expression on his face, Lestrade shook his head. "We'll do our best," he said, "but London's a big town."

"I've asked Sherlock to assist you in this, and he may be able to access information where the police are stymied," he said. "As a free agent, Sherlock has," Mycroft paused, "shall we say, less _restriction_ placed upon his activities."

Lestrade was an old hand at Holmes-speak. Sherlock was very likely to cross the law, or at least, give it some serious bending.

"Always happy to work with civilian experts," Lestrade looked sage.

Mycroft felt a little happier. The Detective Inspector was a good man. _Sound_.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six:**_

_An Unexpected Delivery – Aground – A Betrayal – Going to Burn – L'Atelier de Danse – Il Demandé – She Should Know This – Medical Attention – A Kind of Dance – You Can Buy Me Dinner – Point of No Return._

_#_

_#_

The following Friday, running down the main staircase of her building, heading to work, Cate paused by George's high-fronted security desk.

"Morning George," she said. "Any post for me yet?"

"I believe there was a large envelope for you," he nodded, digging among the residents' mail. He handed her a bulky manila envelope that felt solid and heavy. Hefting it, Cate peeled open the main flap. Inside was a dark red coloured folder. She pulled it out and noticed her name printed in the top right corner.

Frowning, Cate flicked open the front cover to be presented with a closely-printed summary sheet. It summarised her.

Everything about her.

Private, personal, intimate details. Written down. Shockingly itemised.

"Is everything alright, Dr. Cate?" George looked concerned. "You've gone pale. You feeling okay?"

"I'm … I'm fine, George," she murmured, absently lifting up another few pages, then shuffled through to the very back. There was a sheet with a signature on it. A signature authorising this research be actioned. Cate went very still.

Clearly, this file had come to her either accidently or deliberately. If by accident, then she needed to ensure it went nowhere else; if deliberate, then she had to know who sent it and why. Either way, Cate felt there was only one real course of action. She pulled out her phone and advised her admin assistant she was going to be unavoidably elsewhere today, and that she might not be available by phone either.

Then she called the number printed beneath the signature.

"Hello," she said quietly. "I want to talk to you."

###

The wooden hull grated against rounded pebbles and lapping waves. Lifting her eyes once more about the sheltering planks, Leysa looked swiftly around. It was very quiet, although she heard the comforting sound of a baby's cries in the distance. She forced herself to ignore the cramping stiffness, and clambered over the side.

There were no sudden bullets or shouts, so she leaned back and picked up the girl child, putting her up on the rocky beach. The baby was next, and Leysa kicked the boat back into the stream. She wanted no trace of them left.

###

Following directions, Cate left the taxi and entered the anonymous building. Marble and choice veneer and classical architraves were all around, yet after signing in; she walked directly to the lift noticing none of it. Down another corridor and there was the door she needed. Cate stood, taking a couple of deep breaths and wondering how to begin this conversation in any way that didn't involve physical violence.

"Come in, Professor Adin." _Invitation or command_, she wondered. Another part wondered how anyone knew she was outside.

Passing through the heavy door, a moderate office presented itself, complete with a moderate-sized desk and … Mycroft. He stood, silent. Cate noticed his features, though composed, looked less than tranquil. She imagined her own expression was similar.

"Please take a seat," Mycroft began, but at the sound of his perfectly modulated tones, she was suddenly too infuriated to breathe properly, let alone sit. With awkward, angry fingers, she tore the envelope and pulled the burgundy folder into view.

Mycroft tensed. He knew instantly how Cate had found his number; why she was so angry, and what she was about to say. Drawing himself up to his full height and metaphorically girding his loins, he exhaled slowly. He had no knowledge of this Class One Profile being removed from this office. From _his_ office. How did Cate get hold of it? He needed to study the envelope and talk to her when she was calmer. Observing an in-house postage frank, Mycroft made an especial note to deal with Internal Administration. There would be a small increase in the number of very unhappy people in London by lunchtime.

Reading the shift in his stance as a tacit acknowledgement of the situation, Cate felt her anger soar, as thoughts boiled in her head. She threw the folder down onto the desk.

"Explain _this_," she hissed in a voice barely her own.

"Please, Cate, _sit_," Mycroft was still standing, his face taking on a conciliatory light as he offered the chair.

Not trusting herself to be within arm's reach of the man, Cate wrapped her arms tightly around her chest and stepped away. If she went anywhere near Mycroft, the urge to brain him with something heavy might not be controllable.

"_Don't_ …" she ground out, her jaw aching with received affront, a hand in the air stopping his words.

"Parts of my work are distasteful," his fingers drew invisible lines on the desktop.

"_Distasteful?_" Turning to stare at him, Cate trembled. "You could have _asked_!" she cried. "You were in my _home_; we talked about all those things in the car, you could have asked and I would have told you anything you wanted to know … _anything_. Honestly. Frankly. Like grown-ups. But _this_ …" she waved disgustedly at the folder on the desk.

There were a dozen things Mycroft could say to justify the file. And not one of them would be good enough for her. Nor could he tell her that he had read only the summary page. He stood silent as the tempest of Cate's rage whirled around him.

"I am too angry," she choked and swallowed hard. "I can't think when I'm this angry." Before Mycroft could say anything, Cate had stormed through the door and was gone.

Dropping into his chair, Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face as he enumerated every person who might have access to his office and who knew where Cate's file was. The other missing files had been explained, although Stenton's disappearance was still a massive question mark. Mycroft also wanted to know how any hard-copy file of this dimension could have been removed from the building given the stringent security checks in place. Another thought slid in right behind the last one: if Cate's file had got out, what else was missing? And _who_ was responsible? First Stenton disappears, and now this? Mycroft's expression grew dark and troubled. The word _Mole_ formed on his lips as he picked up the damaged envelope and examined the remaining evidences. Four seconds later, he called Sherlock.

There was only one thing Cate could think of to ease the scald of outrage that still beset her and that was to create another kind of heat. She headed for the dance studio. It was the middle of the day; the place would be mostly unused until later in the afternoon. Signing into the smallest of the several _atelier de danse_, she drew the internal window blinds and stuck the 'Do not disturb' sign on the main door, which might earn her a little more privacy. Tossing her street clothes into an uncaring pile, she rolled her shoulders to ease her tight neck and stretched her legs and arms until she heard the joints pop. Setting up a loop of high-energy pulsating music, she began a succession of amplified acrobatic tumbles with back-to-back interchanges that made the floor protest. It hurt already and she just knew it'd be hell in the morning, but she didn't care.

She wanted to burn.

###

Upon demanding Cate's whereabouts, Mycroft was swiftly informed that the Professor wasn't in her office, and her assistant had tried phoning, texting, emailing her. According to George at her apartment building, Dr. Cate had not returned since she left that morning, although he did mention that she had appeared pale and distressed at the time.

Mycroft winced.

Cate was not on the streets hunting for a taxi, nor was she at any of the main City stations or tubes. All public areas were under surveillance, as his people indeed had eyes everywhere. She had gone to ground, and there was only one place left that Mycroft knew she might consider a refuge. It took scant seconds for CCTV playback to confirm Cate entering the dance studio at 11.32am. that day. Apparently she was still there. Deciding this was perhaps not the best of circumstances under which to have his people collect her, Mycroft called for his car.

The place was quietly active, and there were a few groups of healthy young things lounging around in sweats and training shoes. Mycroft attracted curious stares as he strode swiftly by, the scarlet lining of his coat a flared warning as he headed, without hesitation, for the smaller of the practice rooms. Totally disregarding the sign on the door, he swept inside. It was not exactly dark, but the blinds were mostly drawn and almost all the lights were off. Patches of daylight defined the room's contours, but the place itself looked and sounded empty. Checking the circumference with a peremptory scan, he was about to retrace his steps when he saw the subject of his search.

Sitting in the far corner, on a bank of padded mats by a shuttered window, Cate had her arms curled around her knees with her forehead resting on her hands. She was very still.

Walking slowly towards her, his footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden floor, Mycroft felt some relief that she seemed calmer.

"Catherine?"

Without moving, Cate sighed. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she rolled her head in order to face him. Mycroft could see her expression was subdued but her face was free of anger.

"Would you like to have some tea?" he asked. "My car is …"

"Outside," Cate finished with a faint smile. "No thank you, Mycroft," she said. "Not really in the mood for tea."

"Then may I drive you home?" he paused. "There are one or two questions I need to ask you about today's events."

"You don't need to drive me home in order to ask questions," Cate sat up with her hands in her lap and looked at him, her eyes flat and strangely passive. "Fire away."

Bracing his umbrella before him like some medieval knight on a vigil, Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable. He would have preferred the privacy of the Jaguar for this discussion, but felt if he pushed, Cate would simply run away again.

"Have you had any other documents sent to you from my office?" he asked. "Papers. Folders. Memoranda?"

"Not a one," Cate shook her head. "Today was special."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Mycroft nodded. "Have you any idea who may have sent the file to you?" he continued.

"Do you?" For the first time there was animation in her voice.

Mycroft avoided the question. "Did you show the file to anyone before bringing it to my office?"

"No," Cate muttered. "I was not in a terribly sharing state of mind this morning."

"Has anyone other than myself, mentioned such things as that file might exist?" Mycroft avoided her gaze.

"No, Mycroft," her voice grew hard. Standing, Cate moved directly in front of him. "And no," she added, "I have had no other communications from my phantom _confident_; I have no idea who he or she is, or where they are, nor do I have the faintest notion of their rationale for this act of intellectual and emotional sabotage."

"Professor Adin," Mycroft began.

"You've been calling me Cate," she said, looking down. "Were all our conversations fake?" her voice, first cold, turned wretched.

Mycroft suddenly saw how Cate felt betrayed, and not only by the invasion of her privacy. How ironic that she should feel deceived by the receipt of a file that was also a betrayal of him. Mycroft's shoulders eased as an unrealised tension left him.

"None of our conversations were pretence in any way," he said simply. "Certainly not on my part," Cate heard him inhale slowly. "I hope we can continue to enjoy them."

"Not if you prefer duplicity to honesty," she said. Mycroft looked uncertain. "Oh, I don't mean I want to know about your secret government business," Cate added, dismissing the entire British establishment with a curt wave. "But I need my friends to be honest in their dealings with _me_. I respect the power of the truth too much to accept anything less."

Mycroft stood silent. He wasn't sure he could make such a promise. And lying to Cate about being truthful would be unthinkable.

She shook her head. It was clear that Mycroft was more the government's man than he was willing to admit. Unhappily, Cate turned to collect her jacket. Mycroft observed she was favouring her right hand.

"What have you done?" he asked, frowning.

"Nothing much," she started to pull her coat on.

"Show me," Mycroft was at her side, his long fingers gently circling and lifting her arm. Cate flinched as he brushed the base of the radius. The area was swollen and clearly painful.

"I think you may have a broken wrist," he said, peering in the dimness.

"Not likely, Mycroft," she said, gingerly removing her hand from his. "I've broken a wrist before and it felt very different. This," she said, "is probably just a sprain. I shall ice it and all will be well."

"You shall seek medical attention," an imperious directive.

"No. I shall seek an ice-pack."

"I can have you to an X-ray in less than ten minutes," he said.

"Thank you, no." Cate finished struggling into her jacket and began walking to the door.

"Cate," Mycroft's tone was surprisingly persuasive. "Please."

"Please what, Mycroft?"

"Please let me take you to see a doctor."

"Why do you want me to see a doctor?"

"Because I am uncomfortable with the notion that you might be hurt, even indirectly, as a result of our association."

"I don't think that's quite true," Cate kept walking.

"Cate, I'm sorry," Mycroft said.

Time slowed and the silence thickened between them

"Thank you," she sighed, not looking at him. "But I still don't need to see a doctor."

Mycroft decided on candour. "It would make me feel slightly less of a bastard," he added, his voice serious but with a faint optimism.

Finally meeting his eyes, Cate couldn't help but smile. _Those words in that voice._ She shook her head, "You really _are_ a bastard, you know," she said.

Watching her smile up at him again produced an overpowering but by now, not totally unexpected sensation in his chest. Attempting this time to pinpoint the feeling, he stared at her, not allowing his gaze to waver. He saw her eyes fix on his as her breathing slowed. A paradoxical determination washed through him. So: Cate wanted to be dealt with honestly? Very well, then she should know this.

Lifting his hand, he stroked her hair aside, his fingers casually brushing her cheek. A sharp intake of breath was her only response, yet it was a hook in his heart, and he leaned down as if gravity itself was acting against him.

Seeking her mouth with his own, Mycroft's arms slid first around her shoulders and then her back, pulling her close against his chest as his lips tasted her. He felt her hands move, beneath his coat, to rest on his spine and stay there, enfolding him. As if a switch had suddenly crashed open, an unanticipated heat erupted through him, his arms closed tighter, eliciting her softly extended moan. And precipitately, unbelievably, there was no space for detached thought, only astonishing waves of electrifying desire to feel and take, and the insistent mantra _want you, want you, want you_.

Watching Mycroft decide to kiss her was an experience all of its own. As the focus of his regard lingered, Cate saw changes in the blue of his eyes, a darkening, an intensification of gaze. Her breath caught. She could no more have looked away than fly. His mouth was unexpectedly soft, and between the sensation of his lips on hers and the encirclement of his arms, she responded to his embrace without thought, a contagion of heat leaping from his body to fire her own. His cologne, his warmed skin, tipped Cate's senses into overload as everything melded into a single awareness of touch and overriding compulsion. On a distant level, she realised she wasn't going to be able to stand upright for long.

His embrace a seductive cage of feeling and heat, Cate demanded his touch as an irrepressible need for him swamped everything else. Mycroft groaned silently as he felt her press even closer. He kissed her fiercely.

Though the moment was far beyond judgment, a flicker of reason told Cate that neither of them could be completely unthinking or this situation would become awkward. While she retained an ability to act, Cate drew back. Ending the kiss brought a chill of loss, but if they didn't stop now, they wouldn't stop at all.

"_Mycroft_," she breathed, "no."

Lifting his head, Mycroft's expression slipped between polarities of emotion. Part raw passion, part cool rational, his jaw clenched as he realised what she was doing. Dipping his forehead to Cate's shoulder, he inhaled deeply.

"Not good at this," his voice was rough.

Taking a deep breath of her own to slow a racing heart, Cate slipped out from Mycroft's arms and walked mechanically towards the door. Pausing, unsure of how to leave the situation, she felt herself being turned and pressed against the doorframe. Mycroft's eyes were rapt and dark, an almost interrogative expression on his face as he considered her. There was something disturbing about such intensity, though Cate felt the thrill of it too: the degree of attention was paralysing. There was an unhurried inevitability about the way he returned his mouth to hers and she felt each individual finger as Mycroft's hands pressed unforgivingly into her back. Kissing her with a deliberate hunger that stunned them both, his mouth demanded the planes of her throat and the hollows of her neck. The ability to reason was long lost, but Cate's innate pragmatism was making her stop. She went still.

Mycroft felt a singular madness grip him as he pressed Cate between his body and the door, knowing only that he could not let her leave without making all his feelings unequivocal. He knew she wanted what he wanted, he could feel her responsiveness and her pleasure at his touch. And then he felt her body relax into passivity. Without relinquishing his hold, he raised his head to focus on her face. Cate, though flushed, looked unreasonably sane. She even managed a small smile.

His heart was about to lunge from his chest, he was as breathless as a sprinter, and his body was making demands that Mycroft couldn't easily ignore. And she was smiling. Still leaning into her warmth and the heady scent of her, he closed his eyes and breathed, waiting for calm.

It was not a situation he could recall being in before.

"Take me home," Cate muffled into his shoulder.

Swallowing in a dry throat, Mycroft vetoed the idea. "Doctor first," he stipulated.

"I don't need …" she began.

"Doctor."

Stepping away from Cate was one of the more difficult things Mycroft could remember doing. Not quite touching, they walked, side-by-side, out to the Jaguar. The cool London sky brought with it a light breeze and a cosmopolitan bouquet of fresh-cut grass and petrol fumes. Mycroft examined the early evening clouds, assessing tomorrow's chance of rain; he gauged the level of street traffic and judged it appropriate for the time of day, he took a moment to appreciate the sleek contours of his car. By the time he'd helped Cate into the back seat, he was once again the detached government comptroller.

"The Hanley Clinic," Mycroft instructed his driver, who zipped them into traffic.

###

"I thought a medical consultation was supposed to be a private event?" Cate asked, after Mycroft made no move to leave her alone with Dr. Lanier. Holding an ice-pack to the swelling, she looked at Mycroft in exasperation.

"Merely saving the good Doctor the trouble of repeating everything to me after you have left," he smiled urbanely. Honesty was remarkably useful.

Giving him an irritated glance, Cate heard the doctor returning after an amazingly short space of time. Mycroft looked complacent.

"Good news and not so good news," Lanier said, sliding negatives of Cate's wrists into a slim panel light-box before coming to sit on a wheelie-stool in front of her. With practiced delicacy, he elevated her hand and carefully manipulated her fingers and thumb.

"No break," he smiled. "I expect that's a relief?"

Decidedly not looking at Mycroft, Cate returned the doctor's smile.

"And the not so good news?" Mycroft asked, his imperious manner returning.

"In addition to a couple of previous breaks, " he said, "Tiny stress fractures all over the place," Lanier's cool finger drew a series of lines across Cate's hand. "Ancient and recent, on both wrists. Whatever it is you're doing to get these," he added, looking at Cate. "You need to stop."

"Previous breaks?" Mycroft looked displeased. "Plural? You said one break."

"I said I'd broken _a_ wrist before, not how many times I'd broken one," Cate growled. "My wrists are fine."

"At the moment, possibly," the doctor said. "But I expect they bruise a great deal and each time you hurt one, it takes just a little bit longer to right itself?"

Cate bit her lip. It was an accurate summation.

"If I may ask," Lanier was curious, "what exactly is it you do to collect this kind of damage?"

"I dance."

Mycroft coughed delicately. "Ambiguity, Professor?"

"Sort of dance." Cate narrowed her eyes at him. "It's an indoor aesthetic of Parkour, the French are calling _Volcipe_, and the British call _Hardstyle_. But since we both stole it from the Dutch, the name is the least of it."

The Doctor looked fatalistic. "Dance with what? Large rocks? Heavy armament?"

"It's a combination of power-aerobics, extreme gymnastics and modern dance," Cate said. "It's incredibly exciting."

"Then you need to find a replacement for it," Lanier nodded towards the X-rays. "Or you'll regret it in the future." He looked serious, "especially at your …"

"If you were considering using the phrase, 'at my age', Doctor," Cate smiled dazzlingly, "be warned I may be forced to feed you to your own autoclave."

"Professor Adin is usually sincere, Doctor," Mycroft warned. "I suggest you avoid testing her veracity."

Lanier shook his head. They were both mad.

"In the meantime," Cate became practical. "What do I need to do?"

"I'll just wrap a little support around it for you for tonight," he said, pulling out a small crepe bandage. "Other than this, ice-packs, heat-packs and rest. You'll be right as rain in a few days. Would you like something for the pain?"

"There's not a lot of pain," she waggled her hand cautiously under the bandage. "Even the swelling is going. Thank you, Doctor Lanier," Cate stood to leave. "Who do I see about the fee?"

Mycroft smiled politically. "All has been taken care of," he murmured.

Cate waited until Lanier had left the room.

"No," she hissed. "All has _not_ been taken care of," she looked nettled. "I do not expect the British Government to pay my medical bills, nor will I permit my friends to do so, so what's it to be, Mycroft?"

He looked down at ferrule of his umbrella. He gave a little sigh.

"Then you can buy me dinner," he said. "Friends can do that."

Cate met his ingenuous, unscrupulous eyes, and couldn't prevent a faint smile.

"_Friends_," her expression becoming distant as she repeated the word.

At Cate's sudden preoccupation, Mycroft's heart thudded. His body remembered the feel of her. Yet he had no control over this particular future.

"So, dinner?" he asked.

"No. Take me home please, Mycroft." Not a request.

Entering Cate's apartment, Mycroft experienced a sense of the surreal. Every time he walked through her door, something in his life changed.

"Tea, I think," Cate boiled water and rattled cups.

Mycroft wandered over to look at some of the art on the walls, in particular, a large work where the colours were rich in ochre and rust and gold. Tracks of regular white dots flowed almost aimlessly across the landscape.

Cate came to stand beside him. "I did that after a conference in Alice Springs," she nodded. "Those are the colours of the Outback."

"You paint?"

"Of course," Cate said. "My undergraduate degree was a BA in Literature and Fine Art," she paused, thinking. "But you would know that – it was in that damnable file. I saw it there."

Mycroft stared at the painting. "I haven't looked at your file beyond the summary."

Cate frowned.

"Was there a need?' he asked, scanning her face. "The construction of profiles is standard operating procedure in any of my offices, and yours was commissioned before I … grew to know you."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Cate shook her head, then stopped, looking down. "Because I wouldn't let you say anything earlier," she made a face. "I was angry."

"Can we put the issue behind us?" Mycroft poured the tea, handing her a cup. "There is little point brooding over unalterable events."

Walking to the farthest sofa, Cate sat and sighed. "What a day."

Mycroft was still standing next to the kitchen, holding his cup and saucer.

"At the studio, this afternoon," he began, "what happened between us ... was significant."

"Yes," Cate had been waiting for this conversation.

"What was it?" Mycroft turned to look at her.

"I'm not sure," she dithered. "Heat of the moment?"

"Then perhaps we had better find out." Mycroft put down his tea and walked towards her. Lifting her by the arms, he drew her effortlessly upright.

Cate knew Mycroft was tall, but right now, however improbable, he seemed taller. And oddly tense. He was making her nervous.

"I have nothing else to say, really," she faltered, watching his expression change.

"I don't expect you to say anything," he murmured. "I expect you to show me," he said, his fingers splayed delicately along her jaw, his eyes flickering, absorbing her.

"I could run away," Cate whispered. Mycroft's collective scent of skin and soap and suit was interfering with her ability to speak.

"Far too late to run, Catherine Adin," Mycroft's voice was almost dispassionate as he kissed her. In a second, everything fell apart. Cate's heart hammered and a wave of heat swept her as she slid her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

Mycroft's breath hissed between his lips as he held her face, kissing her again, slower and more ardently. It was indecently shocking. _Dear Christ_. Needing more, his arms slid tight around Cate's waist, his mouth becoming insistent, determined, his mind spiralling off to desire and instinct.

The kiss slowed, paused. Still in each other's arms, they stared, brown eyes and blue. Mycroft seemed dazed and breathed deep. Cate focused on making her knees work.

Keeping an arm around her, Mycroft pulled the Blackberry out of his jacket.

"Anthea," his words arid. "Please cancel all my arrangements until Monday morning, " he said, "I do not wish to be disturbed for anything below a Beta Two situation."

Replacing the phone, Mycroft returned his eyes to Cate, learning her.

Distractedly, her hand rested on his face. His skin was cool. Mycroft closed his eyes. He pressed her fingers against his lips.

"We have things to discuss," he said quietly, replacing his hand in the small of her back.

Leaning her face against his jacket, Cate breathed him in, the solid feel of him an understated pleasure. She grumbled into his chest. "Bureaucrat."

"Now would be the time to run," he said. "Perhaps the last chance you might have."

Cate looked into the bluest of blue eyes. "It's far too late to run, Mycroft Holmes" she husked, and reaching up, brought his lips back to hers.

All manner of thoughts and images seared through his brain as Mycroft held Cate close, revelling in the sensation of her curving beneath his touch. But the next step had to be hers.

Pushing away, Cate rested her head against his chest. She knew this moment would change things. Either way, whatever she decided now, there would be no return. Looking up at a rather intent Mycroft, Cate drew his hands from her waist. Neither of them were children. There was no place for coyness.

With a blithe expression, Cate pulled him towards her bedroom.

"We have things to discuss," she said.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven:**_

_A Special Treat – Holy Mother Protect Us – The Man from MI5 – Dark Shadow – Three in the Morning – An Offer of Jewels – In the Eye of the Beholder – Il Nox – Never Forget An Accent – In My Bed – Not Quite Awake – The Duck Engagement – A New Game – Match Point._

_#_

_#_

In a borrowed man's robe - _whose?_- Mycroft made toast in Cate's kitchen. Fishing around in her refrigerator for conserves, he felt a warm pair of arms sneak around his middle.

"I'm starving," she growled into his spine.

Mycroft turned, hands full of jars and kissed Cate's neck. "Hardly surprising," he muttered, a little smugly, "considering last night."

"Would you like a proper breakfast?" Cate ignored the marmalade and curled into his arms, enjoying the feel of his warmth through the robe.

"How about breakfast in bed?" Mycroft disposed of the chilly glassware in favour of the distinctly warmer woman at his side. A giddy pleasure swept through him as he realised he had embarked upon _une affaire de coeur_ with someone he wanted to bed and argue with in equal measures. Ignoring the mocking voice in his head announcing his behaviour hovered somewhere between that of Voltaire and Mr Darcy, Mycroft's hands on either side of her head tipped Cate's mouth up for kissing.

"Or we could leave breakfast for a while," his voice low and enticing as he nibbled along her jaw and under her ear.

"If I don't eat something soon," Cate complained, "I am going to faint." She gave Mycroft the evil eye. "If this is how you treat your women, I'm amazed you even manage to hold onto a housekeeper, probably make the poor thing slave all hours of the day and night and pay her a pittance, keep her locked in a dark cupboard the rest of the tim …"

Cate's remaining diatribe was smothered as Mycroft swept her up, kissing her words away.

"Cease," he muttered, smiling against her skin. "I shall feed you breakfast."

Lingering in his arms, Cate looked through half-closed lashes. "Thank you," she cooed, fighting laughter down. "I told Greg Lestrade was wrong about you,"

"Inspector Lestrade said something about me?"

"Apparently everyone thinks you're a mastermind bent on world domination," Cate snuggled closer. "Though he wouldn't be drawn on whether it was the evil kind or not," she tightened her arms around him. "But I defended your honour and made it clear that I was right and the rest of the world was entirely wrong."

"Did you now?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "And when was this?"

"Oh, ages ago," Cate closed her eyes and listened to his heart through his chest. She thought for a moment. "Did I do wrong to say that?"

"You may have bruised my reputation for ruthless bastardry," he said ,"but that is easily remedied." Mycroft stroked her skin through silk. "You defended my honour?' he asked airily.

"I did," Cate agreed.

"A special treat in that case," he tipped her head to gaze into her face. Stepping away, he located his jacket and phone and made two very brief calls.

"Someone will be up in about half-an-hour with breakfast," he announced. "Which means we have to occupy ourselves until it gets here," he murmured idly. "If you're feeling faint, perhaps you should lie down."

"Is your middle name Machiavelli?" Cate clung to him, helpless, feeling the heat rise again.

"No-one will ever learn my middle name," Mycroft wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in.

"Foolish man …" she whispered, pulling him down to the nearest sofa.

###

Carrying the baby and with the girl struggling alongside her, Leysa began looking for help. Aside from the odd bark of a dog however, the place was silent. Eerily silent. Leysa started looking for a church. They would be safe in a church – the Holy Mother protected her children.

There was an unusual crowd of people in the church – at least that answered one question for her. But why was everyone here? Why was everyone looking so sad? Had they heard of the fighting up the mountain? Did they already know about the soldiers and the deaths? But no: something else was happening. Someone was crying; a lone woman, a foreigner, surrounded by villagers. Why was the woman here, crying?

"There was a fire here last night, at the _pension_ of the foreign visitors," one of the old women told her, glad to have a fresh audience. "Her baby died; a baby boy."

Leysa had no thought to where the idea sprang from, but the child in her arms needed more than she was able to provide. Perhaps the Holy Mother had brought them all here for another reason. Summoning up her remaining courage, she walked towards the grieving stranger.

###

At the same time that Mycroft was asking some very difficult questions of a certain Minister of Internal Affairs, Cate was shopping. Not something she usually made a fuss over, she felt an unusual desire to buy something that felt as good on the outside as she did on the inside. This thing with Mycroft – whatever it was – made her step lighter and her insides shiver with sensation. It was exciting and fun and delicious. Whatever it was.

An interesting dress caught her eye. Plain, almost severe, it had a deep lustre and looked rich. She smiled. If they had it in black, it was hers.

So occupied, she never noticed the dark Porsche Cayenne pull in to the side of the road behind her.

###

It was three in the morning.

"I want to take you out somewhere unspeakably _haute_ and outrageously expensive and show you off," Mycroft said, resting his arms on either side of her as she leaned back by the sink sipping champagne.

"Would you like some champagne," Cate asked, nodding to the second flute and laughing at the madman in her kitchen, "It's really rather good."

Not taking his eyes off her, Mycroft took her own glass and tasted the chilly fizz. He made a face of approval, and knocked back the entire drink. It really was rather good. He was in a very good mood. Everything was good.

"Come back to bed," he caressed her neck with champagne-scented kisses. "I don't think I'm finished with you yet." His voice was beguiling, his hands stroking her silk-clad back upwards into her hair. Pulling her towards him, he parted her lips with a persuasive kiss, as she groaned in mock dismay.

"I have a lecture and at least two meetings tomorrow," Cate grumbled. "How come you didn't think to be this amorous closer to the weekend?"

"Cancel everything," Mycroft was nothing if not decisive. "Stay in bed with me all day," he muttered, finding the soft skin behind her ear. Sensation jolted through her. _Oh, God_. Breathless, she shook her head at his playfulness.

"How old are you, Mycroft?" she sounded severe.

"Not entirely sure, but most of me is voting for about nineteen," he murmured, wrapping long arms around her and enjoying the inclines of her throat with his mouth. "I want you," he whispered. "Come to bed."

About to retort that she couldn't simply drop everything because his libido was entering a second-childhood, she squeaked as Mycroft caught her in his arms and scooped her right off the floor.

"Always wanted to do this," a sinful voice. "Very Leading Man."

"Always wanted a Leading Man," Cate bit his neck.

###

"Have you something blue?" Mycroft asked in passing, as he confirmed dinner that night.

Cate thought about the contents of her wardrobe. Most of her evening gear was a various shade of black, but there was …

"Actually," she considered, "I do." Wondering why the colour was important, "is there dress code?" she asked, smiling. She was smiling a lot these days.

"No, nothing like that," he said. "I like blue."

"Then yes," Cate shook her head a little at the voice on the phone. "I can wear blue."

The dress she'd window-shopped the previous week never did turn out to be black, but instead was a severe but dramatic raw silk midnight blue with a boat line neck that dipped low in front and back. Long-sleeved, mid-calf: proper, but right on the very edge of transgression. It hugged everywhere it was supposed to, although she didn't recall it displaying quite so much cleavage.

By the time Mycroft arrived at seven, she was ready, apart from finding her second pearl stud.

"Be right there," she called from the bedroom, stepping into her courts.

Seeing Mycroft made her abdominal muscles clench. No man had the right to look that edible before dinner. In a stylish dinner jacket, he looked every inch the aristocrat. Tall, impossibly refined and, Cate realised, at least temporarily, hers.

Mycroft experienced a similar sensation as Cate walked out of the bedroom. The dress was exactly right: elegance epitomised, but with enough of the risqué to make people, and by people he meant men, look twice. More than twice.

He was still feeling oddly irrational: on the one hand, his realistic, logical side knew perfectly well this feeling – whatever it was – was unlikely to last, while on the other, his recently exposed demonstrative streak rather hoped it would. It was patently clear that Cate felt something along the same lines simply by her behaviour around him and autonomic responses that displayed her thoughts as transparently as a flashing sign. But she was so unaffected and straightforward, there was nothing, it seemed, she wanted to hide. Mycroft could not remember enjoying a woman's company this much for a long time.

He smiled subtly. _Mine_.

"What's the matter," he asked as Cate walked up looking a little irritated.

"Can't find my other earring," she said, standing close and kissing him slowly on the mouth. "You look positively rakish."

Catching her before she could move away, Mycroft rested a warm hand on her neck and returned her kiss with more than a hint of interest. "We could stay here," he murmured, inhaling her scent.

"I'm starving," she said. "I've barely eaten all day, and am in no mood to think of anything except food." Touching his cheek and lying to his face, Cate looked into his eyes and shivered. _And_ _damn_, she thought. _He knows_.

"Must find my other pearl," she announced, stepping away, hunting.

"Then you might be interested in this," he said, pulling a flat, dark red box out of his pocket. The Morrocaned leather gave an impression of age, but not wear. It looked like the kind of container that held jewellery. Expensive jewellery. Accepting it from Mycroft's hand, Cate examined the name embossed on the base. 'Garrards of London'.

Taking a deep breath, Cate held the box without opening it and stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

"It actually does open," he pointed helpfully, "just there."

"This is Garrards," Cate waved the box under his nose. "_Garrards_."

Mycroft's ingenuousness was droll. "Apparently so," he said, watching her face.

Curiosity forcing her hand, Cate pressed the front of the box which opened with a dull click. Lifting the lid, she sucked in a deep breath and held it.

Three concentric rings of jewels. The outer, a necklace of diamond-bordered, dark blue individual sapphires that glittered and flashed in the light. Next, a matching bracelet and in the centre, earrings of single large sapphires, each paired with a clear white diamond of a scarcely lesser dimension.

Cate felt her heart thud at their sheer brilliance. These would cost ten years of her salary. Twenty years. Only film-stars and royalty had such things. And perhaps the Queen. Maybe these belonged to the Queen.

"Did you steal these?" she asked, daring to touch one of the stones with a fingertip.

Mycroft had been waiting for Cate's reaction and found himself laughing.

"They belonged to my mother," he said. "I want you to have them."

At first, Cate thought Mycroft had said he was giving them to her, but obviously this was impossible. You didn't give things like this away.

"They are stunningly gorgeous," she agreed, closing the box with a deft snap and handing it back to him. "Thank you for letting me see them." Cate turned, about to renew the hunt for the missing pearl, when Mycroft captured her hand. He replaced the box in her fingers.

"For you," he said quietly.

Cate lifted her eyebrows and gave him a pitying look. "No," she shook her head, handing the box back.

"Why ever not?" Mycroft was genuinely at a loss. "You like them."

"Mycroft, they're magnificent," she answered. "And they belong to your family, not me," she shook her head again. "I simply cannot accept such a gift. These should go to your wife. Or Sherlock's wife."

"You may be aware," he mocked gently, "that I have not, as yet, entered the joyous state of matrimony," he smiled. "And the notion that Sherlock is _ever_ going to marry is absurd beyond belief." He opened Cate's hand and replaced the red box.

"I want you to have them."

"Mycroft, are we going to argue about this?" she asked. "Because I don't know another way of saying 'no'."

"Then say 'yes'."

"Never."

"Try them on."

"No," Cate shook her head, although the sudden temptation was acute.

Mycroft compromised. "What if you were to wear them for this evening," he asked, "but under no obligation to keep them?"

It was Cate's turn to laugh. "You sound as if you're selling solar panels," she grinned. Mycroft opened the box and held it out to her.

"For tonight?"

Looking again at the glinting jewels, Cate realised she was going to agree. She glanced up at Mycroft and saw that he knew it as well. She sighed: it was becoming impossible to keep anything private any more.

"Very well," she said. "But we're going to do this properly." Removing the solitary pearl stud, Cate walked over to stand in front of a large oval wall-mirror. She took a deep breath.

"Bracelet, please," she requested, holding up her right wrist.

As Mycroft fastened the cold white gold around her arm, she tensed for a second. The piece was heavier than it looked, but it draped around the sleeve of her dress in a familiar manner as if it had been hers all along. Turning her arm slowly, Cate watched the gems catch the light. Mycroft saw her eyes widen as she indulged in such a simple thing. Even if he had to play lady's maid, her very obvious pleasure gave him an extraordinary feeling – it was quite heady. Whatever it was.

"Earrings, please." As he handed her each brilliant bauble, she clipped them carefully into place. They sat there, flickering within the dark skein of her hair. Lustrous. Inspiring. Sweeping her hair up and turning her head to see them better, Cate felt goose bumps prickle her skin. Watching her preen increased Mycroft's own feeling of enjoyment: it was as if her amazement was broadcasting itself to him. It was even affecting his internal organs, which tingled with each gesture of her delight. This was novel. This was new. Mycroft wondered how powerful this sensation might become. As he held up the necklace, he felt his throat dry.

Cate closed her eyes as he slipped the briefly chill metal around her throat.

Standing behind her shoulder, Mycroft waited for Cate to enjoy her reflection, but she kept her eyes closed.

"Problem?" he asked.

"Nervous," she whispered. "No idea why."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her spine. She shivered.

"_Look_," he said.

Cate realised that this was how magic worked. The woman staring back at her was some exotic creature of fantasy and dream. Her skin had assumed the guise of alabaster against the intense blue of the gems, and the weight of each piece made her stand still and tall. Her eyes looked black. Seized by a rushing sensation, her breath spiked.

"Oh _God_, Mycroft," she whispered. "I look beautiful," she turned to him. "I've never thought about looking beautiful before."

Mycroft Holmes had been called many things, a good number of which would not be acceptable in polite society. A word he had never been called however, was defenceless. Watching and listening to Cate made him feel precisely that. She seemed to have no awareness of her own allure, to be bewildered by it, in fact, and an ache gripped him that she would think this. The urge to hold her was almost overwhelming. About to say something – he wasn't sure what – but something meaningful and …

Cate's stomach growled. "I'm really hungry, Mycroft," she said, looking sheepish.

The mood was broken.

###

_Il Nox_ was an enigmatic, exclusive place. It never advertised. You either knew about it, which said something about you, or you didn't, which said even more. Mycroft used it almost as frequently as he visited the Diogenes, especially when he needed to entertain. It was a little more user-friendly for strangers, in that it actually permitted non-regulars to dine there.

The Maître d' nodded familiarly and beckoned a waiter to show them to a table that seemed, to Cate, suspiciously near the centre of the room. Mycroft had said he intended to show her off, but she hadn't taken him literally. The waiter welcomed them both with a very specific accent. It took a moment before Cate settled on Breton-French. She smiled. There was little love lost between Bretagne and Paris: she would need to avoid a Capital accent.

Mycroft followed Cate as she walked ahead of him to the table. In the dim light of candles and muted wall-sconces, the atmosphere was one of traditional graciousness. Watching her move, elegantly and with her uncontrived self-assurance, he experienced a flare of possession. Every male in the room was pretending not to look at her: her poise, her dress, her jewels. And Cate didn't notice any of it. Mycroft shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or applaud. He compromised with an unfathomable, but elevated smile.

Seating Cate, the waiter mumbled something that made her eyes widen and her lips twitch. Mycroft gave her a questioning look. She shook her head, silently amused. Cate bit her lip. Normally, she'd never have considered anyone might have an opinion of _her_, rather than of her ideas: she felt fractionally uncomfortable.

Mycroft could read each thought as it flashed across Cate's face. She needed to relax. He beckoned the sommelier to discuss an apéritif, and suddenly two chilled glasses were before them being filled with a pleasing _Fino_.

Watching her sip the young sherry, Mycroft observed Cate's natural curiosity distract her away from other thoughts. It was pleasantly quiet and dim in the restaurant and something like Mendelssohn was playing softly in the middle distance.

"This is quite a place," Cate looked around. "I'm surprised ordinary people like teachers are even allowed in."

"Do you like it?" Mycroft glanced around. "Three cabinet ministers, a Bishop and a baker's dozen Peers of the Realm," he observed, nodding in passing to a hand raised in greeting. Dropping his voice a little, "Also two fairly notorious gangsters, a man soon to be arrested on pension fraud and a lady who is thinking of murdering her husband. Second husband," he corrected himself. "What did the waiter say?" he asked idly.

Cate wrinkled her nose which told Mycroft what he wanted to know. "He complimented you?"

"Actually, he complimented you," she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. "He suggested that you must be an important man having a woman like me to warm your bed." She shrugged, "although I _am_ working on the assumption he meant it as a compliment."

Lifting his chin, Mycroft blinked like a snake but remained silent.

Cate waved her hand dismissively. "He couldn't know I understood his dialect," she said. "He wasn't being deliberately offensive, simply indiscreet."

Maintaining his impenetrable expression, Mycroft reconsidered his usual tip. He might have to increase it.

"Is that how you see yourself, " he asked after a moment. "As a teacher?"

Cate thought for a few seconds. "Yes," she said. "It is, but not quite as the noun, and rather more as the verb."

"So you associate yourself with the act rather than the title?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he thought of the connotations.

"I'd say that was about right," Cate nodded. "It's the art of teaching that engages me, not necessarily the idea of being a teacher," she made a face. "Can't say I've ever really thought about it objectively."

"Yet you are a Professor."

"A social title of convenience, and unimportant beyond the academy."

"You enjoy moulding young minds?"

Cate laughed, shaking her head. "You think me that presumptuous?"

Mycroft examined Cate's expression and body-language. Everything she was saying was the unreserved truth. Such a curious paradox. A teacher with the skills of an advocate and the talents of a polyglot, the madness of an aerialist and the fortitude of a soldier: who knew what else? Mycroft saw she had forgotten all about the jewels and wore them as naturally as skin, and, now that she'd relaxed, her conversation was becoming increasingly intriguing. He was magnetised. Whether it was the new physical relationship, or simply the pleasure of getting to know someone so different, Mycroft couldn't say, but he found himself wanting more of this – this, whatever it was – was most … agreeable.

Food was ordered in due course, and Cate enjoyed the quality of the restaurant, the dinner and the company. The Breton waiter had been attentive without hovering, although Mycroft had frightened the man into silence at one point with a chilly stare.

Taking pity, Cate chatted gently in Breton, as soon as the man had moved past the shock of realising his every utterance was understood. Eventually wishing them both '_debrit a galon'_, he moved away to another table. About to query the connections of something sounding equidistant between Wales and France, Mycroft realised that Cate was unmoving, her face taut and eyes unfocused.

"What's the matter," he frowned.

"That voice," Cate spoke softly. "That _voice_ … I know that voice."

Ascertaining the speaker without looking as if he were looking was the work of a moment. Mycroft turned back to Cate. "Tall, short dark hair. Mid-thirties, mid-European, probably needs to shave three times a day, brutish, ostentatious diamond earring?"

Cate's looked down and began playing with her cutlery. "That's him," she said. "That's the murderer I saw in the alley." Looking straight into Mycroft's eyes, Cate was adamant. "I never forget an accent."

A tightening of his lips was the only sign Mycroft had planned his move. Taking up his Blackberry, he pretended to be answering an incoming call while photographing the man Cate had identified. Rapidly texting, the image and accompanying message was sent to both Lestrade and Sherlock within seconds.

"Done," Mycroft smiled picking up his wine.

Cate was surprised. "Is that it?" she asked.

"Is what it?" Mycroft winced at the execrable English. "Everything that needed to be done has been done, and I for one," he said, saluting Cate with his glass, "intend to continue enjoying a delightful dinner."

Mildly bemused, Cate wondered if this was what Mycroft did all the time – set multiple wheels in motion in a single phone conversation. If so, she hesitated to think what he might accomplish while actually at his desk.

Without saying, the coffee was perfect.

"Will you stay at my place tonight?" he asked offhandedly, as they finished their espresso.

"I'd have to collect a few things from home," Cate looked at him. He didn't need a reason to ask her this, but it was curious.

As it happened, Mycroft had a number of reasons, yet was, in truth, reluctant to explain any of them. He wanted to have Cate in his house, to watch her use his things; he wanted to make love to her in his bed, to experience the sensation of sleeping next to her in a familiar room; he so very much wanted to watch her in the dawn light. Self-indulgent perhaps, but Mycroft had an uncharacteristic yearning to have her presence in his home. And she hadn't asked why.

"I'm using your soap so frequently, I fear Mrs Compton may actually start buying it for me," he said. Neither false nor particularly relevant, but it met a need.

Nominally accepting the fiction, Cate sipped her wine. "I'd love to stay at your place," she said, acknowledging their relationship had just taken another step.

"Shall we go?"

Collecting her bag and lifting her wrap, Cate was quietly pleased at the considerate way that Mycroft set it around her shoulders. He really did have the most impeccable manners.

Driving from her apartment to Mycroft's house, Cate slid her hand into his. Warm and relaxed, she craved the pleasure of touch. Mycroft's thumb gently stroked her palm.

Ushering her into the house, Mycroft took Cate into the main lounge and headed for the sideboard holding a fine collection of alcohol. Handing her a glass of her favourite cognac, he turned purposefully towards his music. Hitting the 'play' button, a silky fusion of slow jazz and old blues filled the room. In the half-lit room, the music was moody and inviting.

Stepping close. Mycroft slid his right arm around her while holding her hand against his chest, resting his face on her hair. Cate let him sway her slowly in his arms to the rhythm of the music.

"I had forgotten what happy felt like," he said softly. "You make me feel happy."

Cate's pulse leaped. Unsure of a response, she laid her face next to her hand on his jacket and listened to his heart.

Lifting her away, Mycroft stared down into her eyes and felt a warm surge of need. Whatever it was; to whatever name it answered, he wanted this.

Kissing her, Mycroft Holmes fell a little deeper in love with Cate Adin.

###

He was watching her face when she started to wake. Blinking slowly, soft, wordless sounds, Cate considered re-joining the human race.

"Sleep well?" Mycroft knew exactly how well the woman in his bed had slept last night. He had watched her since before first light.

"Mmm," she murmured, sliding across to rest her face against the base of his neck: his body a warm pillow, his chest-hair tickling. "This is nice."

Torn between wanting to kiss her more awake or wrapping her in his arms and going back to sleep, Mycroft enjoyed the moment.

"Duck," Cate mumbled.

"Duck?"

"I'm going to cook you duck," she sighed softly. "You'll like my duck … s'lovely duck."

"Are you awake?"

"_No_," a wistful little breath. "_'Night_, _Myc'ft_."

Sliding his hand along the rise of her hip and into the deep curve of her waist, Mycroft smiled against Cate's hair and followed her back into sleep.

###

Cate was pleased when she worked out how to have music from the main sound system play in Mycroft's kitchen. It was currently blasting out a hard fusion of blues and rock that made her want to bounce off the walls. Best he not know this. He'd vanished shortly after breakfast, but since she wasn't obligated to be on-campus this day, Cate had decided to indulge her culinary lust and make the mess she'd been itching to make since her first visit.

For some odd reason, the desire to cook duck had been with her since before breakfast. Locating a really good market within minutes of the house, she'd found a bird, blackberries and some sweet little white turnips. So the decision was made: _Canard aux Navets_. With a blackberry sauce.

In close-fitting jeans and an old Berkeley t-shirt, she was in the kitchen, peeling vegetables. The duck was already in the oven and the turnips were ready for glazing. Before peeling the carrots, Cate put on one of her favourite tracks, a soft rock by Boris: _Those Things You Do_. Slightly sleazy, with beautiful blues chords, it was one of her best cooking accompaniments. Currently undulating around the kitchen as she attacked the carrots, she swayed her hips and rolled her fingers above her head as she fell into the music's trance. Dancing in synch with the slow beat, a glass of wine in one hand and a peeled carrot in the other, Cate was in a world of her own, eyes closed, her entire body moving in accord with the music. It felt deliciously hedonistic.

A polite cough came from the doorway.

_Ah_.

Smiling, Cate put her glass down and reached for a stool. Dancing it over to the doorway where Mycroft stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused expression right up to his raised eyebrows, she climbed, carrot still in hand. Wrapping her arms around his neck, for once slightly higher than he, she kissed him deeply; dreamily, provocatively. Ending the kiss before he had time to properly respond, Cate dragged the stool back to its place. Leaning against the bench top, she bit the carrot sharply in two.

"Fifteen – Love," she smiled mischievously.

Mycroft's expression turned speculative as his breath caught in the turmoil of her kiss. _A game_. He liked games: he was quite good at them. With an enigmatic look, he picked up the metaphoric gauntlet and went to change.

Once all the vegetables were roasting, Cate felt she should find the man currently in her life. Walking around Mycroft's environment, she still wasn't sure of his household routines. Stepping into the library – one of the first places Cate had come to treasure – she saw Mycroft turn and drop a book onto a chair before she was swung gently against a bookcase. Pressed close by Mycroft's body, Cate felt her mouth being captured by his and meticulously kissed. He was shamefully good at it. She barely breathed as her heart pounded in her ears.

"Fifteen – All," he murmured against her skin. About to move away, Cate felt him press her harder against the shelves. Wickedly incendiary; his hands curved down to hold her lower body tight against his as their kiss became leisurely and experimentive. It took her breath, and more.

"Fifteen – Thirty," he smiled against her mouth.

His hands were on the point of releasing her when Cate pulled him closer, renewing the contact, fuelling it with all the passion and heat she could. At his slight hesitancy, she moaned a soft complaint.

Abruptly holding her away, Mycroft searched her face. He saw Cate's unfocused eyes and parted lips, and a fresh heat burned through his bones. Taking her hand, he pulled her out of the library, along the passage and up the stairs. Reaching his bedroom, he dragged her down onto the bed beside him, unable to stop himself from accepting her unspoken offer. The woman was a witch.

###

Later, lying warmly together, the discussion turned naturally to game theory.

"Which is why," Mycroft said, stroking her foot with his own, "when applying Nash's stratagem to psychological moves, one of the first rules of any game is to use the weaknesses of one's opponent against them."

Cate looked thoughtful as she inspected a small white scar on his upper arm. "What are my weaknesses?"

Mycroft couldn't avoid a smile. "Me, apparently," he sounded at ease.

Cate looked unconvinced, but forbore commenting. "What's this?" she asked, touching the scar.

"Sherlock received an archery set for his eighth birthday," Mycroft shook his head, remembering. "I received a tetanus shot."

Sitting up to face him more directly, Cate looked calculating. "I was always of the impression," she said, "that the first rule of game-playing was to know, _exactly_, the point of the contest."

Stroking his fingers down the delicate skin of her neck and breast, Mycroft's eyes were unreadable.

"This being the case," Cate held the side of his face gently in her fingers, "then, dearest Mycroft, I claim game, set and match." Kissing the scar to make it feel better, she slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

"I'm going to have a quick shower. Dinner in thirty minutes," she began whistling Boris.

Mycroft linked his fingers behind his head and lay back against the pillows, a singular expression on his features.

Cate was correct: the _very_ first rule of any game was to be quite clear what the game actually was. She had, for the first time, called him 'dearest Mycroft'; not a massive leap forward, but a definite improvement. He settled back and enjoyed an incredible sense of contentment and good humour. He knew precisely the game he was playing, and the match was a long way from over.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter Eight:**_

_A Royal Command – Step Into My Office – People, Power and Problems – The Country Affair – A Proposal – Tea and Swords – On Thin Ice – A Long Way from la Rive Gauche._

_#_

_#_

About to walk out of Mycroft's front door to the waiting car, her eye was caught by something in a small pile of correspondence on the hall-table. Reversing her steps, Cate picked them up, looking for the … ah. Long, white, windowed envelope, with a crest. Reading the frank, she made out the words 'Cabinet Office'. The envelope was marked urgent and personal.

"Might this be important?" She waved it at Mycroft coming down the hallway behind her. "Did you want to take it with you to the office?"

He looked long-suffering. "It's another invitation to accept a knighthood, I expect," Mycroft dropped the envelope back on the table. "They keep sending me these damn things without any consideration of what it is I actually _do_." He looked at Cate's widened eyes and raised brows.

"What?"

"The Queen wants to give you a knighthood?"

"It would seem so."

"And you declined the nomination?"

"Several times."

"Oh," Cate shrugged and walked to the Jaguar.

Thinking, Mycroft got in beside her. "Although I likely will accept one day," he said offhandedly. "It will make Her happy."

"Her?"

Tipping his head, Mycroft raised both eyebrows and said nothing.

"_Oh_."

"Then I'd be Sir Mycroft, and my wife," he added with a soft cough, "if I had one, would be Lady Holmes." His face was carefully devoid of expression.

"I know how the system works, Mycroft," Cate rummaged in a capacious briefcase, its worn black leather billowing as she pulled its contents around. "_Blast_," she muttered. "I was sure I had a memory stick in here I was going to give you with an analysis of your Petronovka situation.

"An analysis?"

"Yes – did it in my spare time during last week. Thought it might add some local colour to the metadiscourse compiled, no doubt, by your own people."

"You've written a political analysis?"

Cate turned to face him, mildly peeved. "Just because I teach Literature does not render me incompetent in other fields of inquiry," she said. "I thought your situation was intriguing, so I researched some productive sources and transcribed the findings. There is no compulsion to read it." Frowning, "It's moot anyway as I seem to have left it at my office."

"I can swing by and collect it, if that's convenient?"

"What, this morning? You want to read it?"

Mycroft nodded. "Besides," he said. "I haven't seen your office."

"It's nothing special," Cate wrinkled her nose thus telling Mycroft everything. Really, he would have to advise her about that little give-away. One day. _Perhaps_.

Directing his driver to the campus in Gower Street, they parked outside the main administrative building and walked through to the large Humanities block behind it.

The campus was eerily quiet. "Break week," Cate nodded. "I get all my paperwork done this week if I can."

Taking an industrial-sized lift to the fifth-floor, Cate slid a pass card through an electronic lock on an unassuming grey door _Professor Catherine Adin: Comparative Literatures_.

Again, Mycroft's skin prickled as he stepped, for the first time, into another private part of Cate's life.

A fairly spacious office with long windows looking towards Tavistock Square. The two main walls were invisible behind books, piled journals and art, with the wall around the entrance smothered in postcards and photographs – mostly of students in various locations around the world. A large L-shaped desk was unexpectedly clear of detritus, home to only a standard HP desktop and printer.

Cate saw Mycroft's look at the tidy desk and laughed. "I have to keep some sanity and organisation in this place," she gestured around. "My home from home," she smiled.

It had taken Mycroft less than three seconds to take it all in. This space was, despite its superficial air of confusion and clutter, remarkably systematic.

"Where is your copy of _The Tempest_?" he asked, testing his theory.

"Behind you, third shelf from the floor, two sections in, next to the Hello Kitty doll," she said, pulling open a desk-drawer and hunting for the USB.

"And Jeanette Winterson?"

"Two shelves higher, between DeLillo and Ackroyd," she muttered, still searching. "Ah, _finally_." Leaning down, Cate plucked a small black memory stick and waved it. "Shakespeare and Postmodernist authors?" she asked, curious.

"Merely testing an hypothesis," he smiled.

Walking over, Cate handed him the USB. "It's only a few pages," she said, "but there may be something in there that can jog an idea in someone else."

Suddenly reluctant to leave her, Mycroft stalled.

"Do you have any major plans for the weekend," he asked casually.

"This being break week, I am unlikely to have problem students at my door, and I don't think I have any scheduled meetings, hang on …" Pulling out an old-style A4 desk diary, Cate flipped through a couple of pages, scrawled with notes, names and numbers. "Nothing I am committed to attend," she looked up, smiling. "Why?"

"I wondered if you might like to come and stay at my place in Surrey."

Cate stared at him. "You have a house in Surrey?"

"Yes. _Deepdene_. A small house on a few acres," he nodded.

"You have a _country_ home?"

Mycroft looked puzzled. "Problem?"

Shaking her head, Cate grinned. "I've never known landed gentry before," she laughed. "Makes me feel ennobled."

"Will you come?"

"Of course, I'd love to."

"Good," he nodded. "We can drive down on Friday if that's acceptable."

Feeling marginally happier about leaving Cate's company, Mycroft turned towards the door, suddenly noticing a series of small geometric paintings mounted vertically on the wall down the length the door. Each one, no more than six-inches square, had been carefully produced and exquisitely framed. Though simple, they were beautiful.

"What," Mycroft asked, intrigued, "are these?"

Peering around him, Cate grinned. "Those," she acknowledged, "are my pin-numbers and passwords."

Looking at the drawings more intently, Mycroft initially saw only concentric squares, triangles, circles of various dimension and dots. One or two heptagons and larger polygons …

Cate pointed. "I told you I have no math," she said, "well, it's a little more than that. I have a problem remembering anything numeric – numbers refuse to behave for me – so I translate all my numeric codes into visual cues."

And then Mycroft saw. Starting from the outside shape and moving to the centre, he counted the points of each, producing a sequence of digits. Original, if hardly secure. He smiled.

"You," he said, lightly touching her face, "are unique."

Cate wrinkled her nose.

Mycroft left for his office, a contented man.

###

He sat at home; single malt in one hand, print-out of Cate's analysis in the other. He realised he hadn't actually read any of her work yet, so this might be interesting in more ways than one.

In her preamble, Cate wrote of the strategic location of the village, of the historical enmities and alliances between the hill people of the area; of the ancient hatred of these Ukrainian tribes for their first imperialist, then Communist, overlords; and of the growth of social and political tension upon the discovery of massive mineral deposits in the area. So far, this was nothing new, although he approved of her writing style which was terse, lacking adjectives and entirely relevant. Should Cate ever become disenchanted with academic life, he could find her any one of fifty different posts in government service. Mycroft deliberated the idea for a moment. She might end up working for him. The ghost of a smile crossed his face. Perhaps not the most far-sighted of notions.

Following the introduction, Cate had broken her analysis into three key areas: people, power and problems. In each of these areas, she identified and discussed the major players, issues and outcomes. Again, Mycroft had seen most of this in briefs prepared by his own people, but then he read something which made him stop and re-read.

_Rumours persist that several survivors from the massacre were removed, with unspecified local assistance, from the immediate environs before additional Soviet forces isolated and cordoned an area of several square kilometres. One name in particular is associated with these alleged individuals – the Michelenko Family – is said to have listed three family survivors: an adult and two young children, who were later reported as missing. While this may be nothing more than conjecture, the stories are remarkably detailed, consistent and contiguous with comprehensive personal accounts of engaged Soviet personnel and external apocryphon._

This information alone made the analysis valuable. Silently thanking her, Mycroft picked up his Blackberry and called Sherlock. Another piece of the puzzle had just become visible.

###

The man from MI5 gestured to the worn photograph on Mycroft's desk. It depicted an extended family group: Grandparents; Father; Mother, elder children and a very small infant. From the clothes and the house behind them, they appeared eastern European.

"He was born where?!" Mycroft was appalled. "How was this fact in any way suppressed from either his original recruitment or any of the subsequent security checks?" Staring out of the window, Mycroft's mind was spinning with new information.

Michael Stenton had been born in the tiny village of Petronovka in the Ukraine. A very young child, one of only a few to survive the massacre of more than thirty years before, he had been smuggled into the West and adopted by the Stentons. Mycroft had seen the adoption certificate himself, but the child's origin was stated as being rural England. How had an infant been smuggled from the Russian border to a remote farm in South shields? More to the point, how had all this taken place without tripping off any of the usual red flags? Protocols maintained precisely to spot this kind of movement?

"This is the connection between Stenton's disappearance and _Operation Bradshaw_," Mycroft felt some ease knowing that, at last, the pieces were becoming clear. "I must speak with my brother," he announced, advising the MI5 operative to leave.

"Stenton was born in the Ukraine," Mycroft's words were clipped. "I need proof of any connection between his disappearance and the compromised escape road. If you have to travel, my office will make all necessary arrangements."

Placing his phone on the desk, Mycroft looked very thoughtful. If Stenton was Ukrainian, a survivor of the Petronovka killings, then he might, for obvious reasons, feel some vested interest in upsetting the Russian applecart. If it appeared that the Russians were responsible for compromising and shutting down _Bradshaw_, they would be harshly dealt with by not only Britain and Western Europe, but the US as well. How far would someone like Stenton go to achieve his ends – whatever they were? What would he do to secure revenge, if that was his motivation? What would it be worth to have one half of the European bloc at the collective throats of the other?

And who was Michael Stenton?

Picking up his Blackberry, Mycroft phoned Russia.

###

Heading towards Dorking, the drive down to Westhumble had been swift and uneventful. The Jaguar once again hosted a couple of raincoats who would, it seemed, be spending the weekend with them. Cate hadn't been overly enthused about this until Mycroft explained that they would be quartered in a guest cottage a little way from the main house.

Pulling into the sweeping drive and forecourt, Cate was lost for the appropriate superlative. Superla_tives_. The place was perfect.

An Edwardian construct, Cate marvelled at Mycroft's description of a 'small' house. The place was enormous. And beautiful. Standing and staring at the lovingly-arched stone porch, and the splendid mullioned windows in the setting sun, she was struck silent.

"Shall we go in?" Mycroft gestured to the main entrance.

"Not sure I want to," Cate answered. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's so beautiful from out here, I think anything else will have to be an anti-climax."

Mycroft smiled and took her hand. "_Come_," he pulled her in with him.

If anything, the interior was even more gorgeous than the outside. A house of enormous character, with a wealth of preserved period features; an expansive reception hall; gothic style wrought iron, and an impressive carved staircase and galleried landing.

"I think I'm in heaven," Cate whispered, trying to absorb everything simultaneously. "This is unbelievable."

Mycroft stood watching her. Cate's unfettered delight in his house made him feel unaccustomedly buoyant. Deepdene _was_ a pretty house.

"Built by General, Sir Julius Tarquin Holmes, my great-grandfather, shortly after the death of Queen Victoria," he announced. "Something of a forward-thinker for his day," he added. "Internal plumbing abounds."

Taking her hand again, Mycroft drew Cate through the ground floor: the massive drawing room, lined with books, portraiture and quality furnishings; the dining room, a long imposing space with those stunning windows, crests everywhere; a dining table that could easily host a re-enactment of the Siege of Khartoum; the kitchen and all the usual offices associated with ground-floor existence. The kitchen was another dream: this one had clearly been renovated in the last few years and Cate found herself wishing it were Christmas so she'd have an excuse to cook a goose and do the whole seasonal thing. This place simply _begged_ for it to be done. She imagined a tree and a fireplace and … Cate mentally shook herself. _Foolish_. It was only a house.

"This is a wonderful house," she sighed, putting her arms around Mycroft's middle. "It's divine. Thank you for bringing me here."

"I rarely get the opportunity these days to come down," he said. "I was even thinking of selling."

Cate drew back, outraged. "You can't think of selling Deepdene," she was appalled. "Unless you really need the money."

"It's not the money," Mycroft looked around. "I simply do not use the place enough to warrant its keep."

"That's a _terrible_ justification," Cate remonstrated. "I'd be down here every single weekend I could get away from town," she murmured, looking up at the intricate gilding on the ceiling. "It's fabulous."

Mycroft couldn't help but smile. Cate's instant admiration of the house added to his own enjoyment.

"Come and see upstairs," he suggested.

Following Mycroft up the broad coil of staircase, Cate walked in and through several substantial bedrooms and bathrooms until she came to the master suite.

"Holy _wow_," she whistled.

A substantial space; the ubiquitous four-poster bed; floor-to-ceiling windows; some serious curtaining; great big thick carpets and an open fireplace, with, yes: a fur rug. Cate snorted: the room was channeling Barbara Cartland. It was unusual for her to covet anything, but this, well, _this_ was special. She scrutinised the four-poster.

"Is that thing comfortable?" she asked sceptically.

"Very much so," Mycroft sounded so neutral that Cate was immediately suspicious.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" she demanded.

"Nothing. It's perfectly acceptable," he added.

"Not that I'm calling you a liar, you understand," she said, "but I suspect you of lying."

"There's one way to prove I'm telling the truth," Mycroft said, candidly.

"We arrived only thirty minutes ago," Cate shook her head, scandalised, but laughing.

"Then we should waste no more time," with a disreputable smile Mycroft pulled her into his arms, kissing her to the edge of indecency.

Cate's knees trembled. "You have an unfair advantage," she breathed.

"And what is that?" Mycroft was fascinated by the pulse at the base of Cate's throat. It was enticingly erratic.

"I have no idea, but whatever it is, it's not fair," she whispered, succumbing to his touch and closing her eyes.

Mycroft felt two tidal waves wash over him. The first: a surge of heat and desire and lust over which, at this time and in this place, he wanted little control. The second, an impossible flood of emotion for the woman in his arms.

In the moment before his higher reasoning shut down, Mycroft knew he wanted Cate Adin with him for more than the weekend: for more, even, than the foreseeable future. In the second before instinct overpowered thought, Mycroft Holmes realised he was in love. And the knowledge crucified him.

###

Cate knew something was wrong. He was far too remote.

After sex, they would normally share soft kisses and even softer words until sleep drifted in, but this time, though Mycroft had followed her over the brink of passion into the soaring ascent of orgasm, there was a sense of strangeness, as if more was involved here than pleasure. And instead of brushing her lips with his own and whispering gentle words of delight, he had wrapped her tightly and silently in his arms, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Was he upset? Angry? Cate knew if Mycroft wanted to talk, he would. If he didn't, prompting would be unlikely to provoke such action.

Something was wrong, and she didn't know what to do about it. She held him close and waited for dawn.

###

"Will you walk with me?" Mycroft was still uncomfortably tense. She had hardly eaten a thing at breakfast: ashes in her mouth

"Of course." Cate blinked slowly. She knew what was going to happen next. For some reason, he was going to announce their relationship had run its path and, though he would always think of her fondly, it was time for a parting of the ways. She felt ice inside. Let this be over and done with.

Taking her hand, Mycroft led Cate through the kitchen garden; out beyond an Italian landscape where classical ideals of beauty and order held sway, into a wilder place of rough grass and apple trees.

A stone bench beneath an imposing oak.

"Please," Mycroft gestured for her to sit. Cate couldn't take any more.

"Mycroft, if you want me to leave, then just say so without any theatricalities," she said bleakly. "I've had this conversation before and neither of us need to draw it out to a gory conclusion."

Looking at her, mystified. "What conversation?"

Cate sighed. "Where you tell me it's been fun but you realise you can't devote the necessary time to any relationship and we should call an end to this," she waved a hand in the air, "whatever _this_ is."

Mycroft stood, hands-in-pockets, frowning deeply. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said.

Cate turned to walk back to the house. "Never mind, Mycroft," she spoke low. "I don't want to be hurt, or be told to go." Cate's voice wobbled. "_Goodbye_."

"For an intelligent and insightful woman, you are incredibly dense at times," Mycroft sighed as his hand caught her arm. "Come back and sit down," he ushered her to the bench. "Please."

Sitting, more because her knees were shaky than because he wanted her to sit, Cate waited in unhappy silence.

"Forgive me if I've made you uncomfortable," he said. "There is an issue I must discuss," Mycroft continued, "but which, I confess, is beyond my usual _metier_." Cate closed her eyes.

"Last night, I realised something that should have been obvious to me for a long time," Mycroft hesitated, "though it appears I am as fallible as the next man in this area," he smiled uncertainly. Cate stared at the grass by her feet.

Mycroft sat beside her, his fingers stroking down the side of her face until she looked up. He waited until her eyes focused on his own. He smiled, almost hopelessly.

"I love you," he said.

Cate stared.

"Marry me," he said.

Cate stared. Her eyes widened. She sucked in a breath.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows, a faint twist of his lips. He waited.

"You love me?" Cate could hardly shape the words.

"Yes."

"This is a proposal."

"Yes," Mycroft's mouth twitched harder. "People do this, you know."

Cate's heart did a double-back flip. With pike and twist. Then reality leaped in front of her. A reality of stone and steel and the hard things of life.

"Mycroft," she husked, "I'm sorry, but no."

Being honest with himself, Mycroft admitted he had expected Cate to accept him.

"May I ask why not?" His voice was as gentle as Cate had ever heard.

"You are an amazing man," she said. "I admire you immensely, I feel very close to you … but … I don't love you," she looked at him then back at the grass, her words barely audible.

"You care for me," he stated. "I know you do."

"Yes, of course I do," Cate could barely speak. "But that's not enough to marry someone."

"It could be," he said slowly.

"Not for _me_," she was whispering now, her chest tight and a burning behind her eyes.

"Ah," he sighed shortly, disappointed. "Well. Worth a try."

Cate said nothing, but sat, rigid and desolate. Mycroft sought her hand. "Tea is called for, I think."

Unmoving, Cate shuddered, a sob catching her breath. A warm hand lifted her face as tears she had stemmed broke through.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft," Cate couldn't see through blurred eyes. But she could feel. Two arms wrapped around her, pulling her up and against his chest, holding her there, rocked her gently. Resting her face against the tweed of his waistcoat, Cate stood and wept for the answer she was unable to give him.

"Darling Cate," Mycroft spoke into her hair. "Don't cry; it's not a problem."

She cried harder, shudders racking her body.

"_Darling_?" she stammered.

"Yes, do you object to the term?"

Cate shook her head, wiping her eyes. "It sounds lovely," she exhaled.

Really, if the situation weren't quite so fraught, Mycroft would have smiled. As it was, he felt far from unhappy. For Cate to be so upset argued that she cared a great deal more for him than she was ready to admit. And he was a master of the long game. This situation had been premature, brought about by his impetuosity. He wouldn't make the same mistake next time he asked her. Sooner or later, Catherine Adin was going to be his wife. The urge to have her constantly in his life, to be with her every day, was becoming an imperative.

When her emotions calmed, Mycroft led her back to Deepdene's warmth, his arm around her shoulders. Oddly, Cate being so troubled made him feel even more strongly towards her: a paradoxical and possibly Quixotic response to her refusal. So this was what love for Cate felt like. Mycroft hugged her to his side as they walked back into the house.

After insisting she sit and have tea, Mycroft distracted her with a tour of the rest of the house, including the attics. Recovering her normal lightness of being, at least externally, Cate took more of an interest in things. In one of the long attic-rooms was a basket of swords.

"Mycroft, these are real swords," she said, lifting one out.

"Yes, be careful," he extracted another. "They may still be sharp."

Cate balanced a foil cautiously across her hand. "I like the feel of this," she murmured, taking hold of the hilt and whisking the blade up in the air. Mycroft had chosen a sabre and was holding it in a pronate position, staring down the long blade. It had probably belonged to Sir Julius.

"Did you fence?" Cate was watching him closely.

"Had lessons, as did Sherlock," he stepped to a point-in-line. "Long time ago."

"I've always wanted to learn," she mused, throwing Mycroft a passable salute.

"Then you first need to know how to grip the weapon." Mycroft replaced his sabre and stood behind Cate, showing her how to straighten her arm with the palm up, keeping her wrist flexible. The contact with her warmth, the touch of her skin, the fragrance of her, and fencing was no longer the focus of his thoughts.

"Whether you love me or not," he said, his arms bringing her close to his chest, "is unimportant, as long as you are happy to be with me."

For the first time since last night, Cate began to relax. "I am happy," she said. "But you can always make me happier," she slid her arms around his neck.

Mycroft complied. _Wife_, he thought. _Soon_.

###

Upon returning to London following the mixed experience of Deepdene, Cate decided she needed time alone to adjust to her relationship with Mycroft. Things had changed and she felt as if the ice beneath her feet was suddenly very thin. Wanting to establish a new level horizon, Cate made it clear to him that she wasn't running away, but rather, marshalling her forces.

"It will only be for a few days," she murmured as he held her. "I need to rebalance my understanding of things, and I can't do that when I'm always thinking about you."

Not terribly pleased with the idea, yet Mycroft felt he couldn't actually ask her not to do this.

"What will you do?"

Cate laughed at him. "The same things I was doing before we met, probably."

"Will you be at your apartment?"

"Of course," Cate was puzzled. "Where else would I be?"

Mycroft relaxed a little. Cate's announcement that she needed time by herself was initially disquieting, a sign of how far this relationship had come. He was unwilling to push too hard as he had seen her reaction to this treatment several times.

"I'll see you at the weekend?"

Running her arms tight around this man who was suddenly very important in her life, Cate rested her head against him, wishing she could say the words he wanted to hear.

"I think I might look into a fencing class," she muttered against the cloth of his suit, "now that neither you nor that doctor chap think I should risk life and limb, I need something fun to do."

"I could …" Mycroft began. Cate lifted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Or perhaps not," a faint smile.

"Perhaps not," Cate agreed. "Until the weekend?"

###

Seeking clarity of mind and emotion, Cate knew the best thing she could do was to focus on something else entirely. She needed distance and perspective. True to her word, Cate quickly located the closest fencing school to her apartment and went to have a look. Reluctantly following Dr Lanier's advice, she had cut out the more forceful elements of her dance sessions, and although Cate maintained a few hours each week to get her heart beating fast, they lacked the satisfaction of having to stretch to one's limit. She needed something new and exciting, and fencing was an old, old fantasy, ironically, re-awakened by the weekend at Deepdene.

The _Ecole d'escrime de Laurant_ occupied the entire first floor of a converted warehouse. A large space, it held eight strips that she could see, with plenty of room around each one for officials and whoever else needed to be there. It was light and airy and smelled of wood and machine oil and electricity. An intriguing combination.

Walking around the perimeter of the room, Cate was fascinated by everything: the posters on the wall; the sounds, the kit, and, of course, the fencing itself. Everyone looked incredibly fit and energetic. It augured well.

Dressed all in white, a dark-haired man walked over; somewhere in his mid-thirties, with his mask beneath one arm, long white gloves in the opposite hand, he was consciously handsome.

"_Allo_," he said. "I am Emile Laurant," he gestured around. "This is my school. May I help you?" Pure seventh arrondissment; his accent screamed _le Faubourg_. What on earth was he doing running a fencing school in London?

"You're a long way from la Rive Gauche, Monsieur Laurant," Cate smiled and shook his outstretched hand.

Looking at her more carefully, "Do we know each other?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Cate laughed. "I have an ear for accents, and yours is unmistakable."

Laurant looked mildly sceptical but shrugged. "And you are here because ..?"

"I am thinking of taking up fencing and wanted to get a clearer picture of what was involved before I did."

"This is good sense," he nodded approval. "There is much to see," he beckoned. "Come, come."

Taking her through key aspects of the school, Emile Laurant made it clear that a significant commitment was required from participants – he usually asked people to sign up for at least a year.

"That seems a lot to ask of people who may not enjoy it," Cate demurred.

Laurant shrugged again. "It is their choice, but my time," he said "It teaches people to consider carefully before they commit to something."

A small voice inside her agreed.

"Do I have to buy all the equipment from the beginning or may I hire it?" she wanted to know.

"Better to buy; but convenient to hire until you are certain," he suggested.

Cate smiled. This was sounding pretty good.

"When would it be convenient for me to begin?" she asked.

"Right now?" Laurant directed her towards a rack of white clothing and masks. "Find a jacket, breeches and a mask and meet me back here in ten minutes."

Dressing in the oddly-shaped clothing took longer than it might, but once she had worked out the velcro and the zips, it made sense. Finding a mask that fitted comfortably took seconds. Catching a view of herself in a full-length mirror, Cate grinned. At least she looked the part.

Walking out with the mask under her arm, Emile Laurant was waiting. He handed her a pair of long gloves. "Compliments of the academy," he said, leading her towards a long rack of swords.

"And now we choose your weapon," he looked at her carefully. "Are you agile and strong?" he asked.

Smiling a little, Cate nodded. "I believe I am."

"Good. We will begin with a dry foil French grip."

Lifting Cate's arm straight, he assessed her reach. "Et, _voilà_," he said, handing her a lighter-than-expected blade. "We will try from here."

Directing her to an unoccupied strip, Emile explained the first stance, and why footwork was so terribly important. "When I was learning," he said. "It was months before they would even let me hold a blade!"

He showed her how to place her feet. "First I will show you how to protect your heart," he said.

For a second, Cate wondered if the man was psychic.

"We call this the Parry _Quarte_, or parry four, which enables you to prevent an attack on the upper left quadrant of your body." Assuming a stance, Laurant demonstrated the response he was seeking from her.

"Ready?"

Cate nodded.

"_En garde_," he said, and lunged. The bent tip of his own foil pinged neatly off the padding of her jacket.

"My _God_," she exclaimed. "That was so fast."

"_Encore_."

Again, they took their places. "_En garde_."

This time, Cate was at least able to move back and flick the end of her foil just in time to bat Laurant's out of the way, though it was a pretty feeble response. But he seemed pleased.

"Good, that is _good_," he smiled. "You learn quickly." Replacing his mask. "_Again_," he said.

After nearly thirty minutes of nothing else but parrying a single thrust, Cate felt exhausted: her wrist and leg aching. This was no sport for softies. About to ask for a break, Laurant paused before surprising her with an unexpected lunge which she parried without thought; her hand and body moving naturally into position.

"_Brava_," he nodded. "See you on Friday, Madame."

Cate grinned mightily. This could be fun.

###

Mycroft was restless. Abandoning his dinner after a few bites, everything in the newspaper was tedious, he wasn't in any mood to listen to his favourite pieces, and forget the television – for the fourth night in a row, he might as well return to his office and spend the evening working, as fritter it away. He felt strangely disconnected from his life: nothing seemed to fit in anymore. He wondered what Cate was doing. Four days apart and everything felt wrong. Mycroft sighed. No doubt about it, then: he had to change her mind. Her surveillance report had her entering a fencing studio a tube-ride from her home. Naturally, he had the place vetted to ensure its legitimacy. Owned and managed by the scion of Parisian blue-bloods, she was in the school for well over an hour before exiting and returning home. Apparently, she was due to return there in the morning. Mycroft wanted to see her; to feel the warmth of her. And Friday was _almost_ the weekend. He poured himself a large scotch.

###

Dressed once again in the white garb of the fencer, Cate joined the beginners' class, learning the 'en garde' position and several basic stances. Moving across to the _pistes_, Cate expected to be in another group to practice, but was greeted by _Le Patron_ himself.

"_Ici_," he beckoned. "I will show you the next parry, and after that, we will have coffee, yes?"

Cate looked amused. "Is drinking coffee part of your teaching?" she asked.

"Only for the brightest of pupils," he winked. Cate wasn't sure what to say. The man was younger than her by several years, and although quite striking in a flamboyant way, he really wasn't the sort she'd consider. Besides, her thoughts had already focused on another face: quiet, austere, a serious face with a wayward lock of hair and a slightly cruel mouth. She shivered.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter Nine:**_

_An Inspector Calls – The Silliness of Emile Laurant – You Love Me – Where The Heart Is – Michelenko – 'Darling Mycroft' – An Antiquated Tradition – Lobster and Barbiturates – Not Dead Yet._

_#_

_#_

Greg Lestrade had finally managed to produce a list of all British persons in the Ukraine at the time of the Petronovka incident. It was as detailed as could be made given the lack of digital records for the time. In hard-copy print out, Mycroft Holmes had requested it urgently. He called Mycroft.

"I shall be in Crawford Street around eleven," Mycroft said, providing the address. "Would it be convenient for you to meet me there?"

Used to Mycroft's idiosyncrasies, the Inspector was resigned.

"Sure, see you then."

Laurant was showing Cate how to hold her torso static, while allowing footwork and her arm to protect her centre. She was finding it difficult to remain still, when her every instinct wanted to move herself out of the way of the incoming attack. And she could, so very easily.

"Who is that man?" Laurant asked over her shoulder. "He is looking at you very strongly."

Cate looked, a part-smile on her lips. _Mycroft?_ She didn't bother to wonder how he knew she'd be here. Apart from this fencing notion, she had been so bored waiting for the weekend, and now he was here. She smiled properly.

"Your husband?"

"No," Cate replied.

"Your lover?" Nothing if not curious, Laurant looked across at the dour Englishman standing so straight and stiff by the wall. Not the kind of man this woman would want, surely. She needed someone younger, with more fire and energy.

"Shall we make him jealous?" he said.

"Really, that's not a good idea, Emile," Cate shook her head. Seriously not a good idea.

"No, no," he paused, "let us see what he does when I do _this_…" Laurant slipped his hand around Cate's slender midsection and jerked her backwards until she was pressed against him. He pulled her shoulder back and pushed the arch of her spine forward to straighten her entire stance.

Cate chose not to look.

Greg Lestrade walked in just as Mycroft inhaled sharply.

"Morning Mycroft," Lestrade was cheerful until he took in the elder Holmes' expression. Not good.

"Good morning, Inspector," Mycroft's voice was flat and cold, like something that waited at the back of dark caves.

"What's the matter?" Lestrade had rarely seen the man even mildly flustered, let alone visibly heated. He looked around for anyone immediately vandalising a Rembrandt or melting down a couple of de Lamerie candlesticks.

Mycroft said nothing, but his gaze was fixed forward. Lestrade looked. Everyone was dressed pretty much the same – these fencing bods – until he spotted Catherine Adin. Catherine Adin in the arms of a young and handsome European type. He looked back at Mycroft. The man's face was granite. _Ah_. Things became clearer. Lestrade smiled to himself. He'd never have guessed these two would hit it off, but stranger things, and all that.

"So," he said. "You and the Professor, eh?"

Turning, Mycroft's expression froze any idea of further comment. He returned his eyes to the _piste_.

"Honestly, Emile, this is a very bad idea," Cate prised herself out of Laurant's grasp.

"But look," the man sniggered. "Now there are two of them staring at you."

Cate looked. Greg Lestrade was talking to Mycroft. What on earth was going on?

"Don't like the look of him," Lestrade sized the younger man up. "Bit too obvious."

"French," Mycroft grated.

"_French_? Really?" Lestrade was contemplative.

On the _piste_, Laurant was standing behind Cate, supporting her arm with one of his own, while the other hand rested easily against her waist.

Mycroft looked stormy.

"Want me to shoot him?" Lestrade asked, casually.

"You have a gun with you?"

"No, but I could get one brought around," the Inspector seemed quite happy to oblige.

Laurant's voice was very close to her ear as he walked her through the second and third parries. Cate was becoming less and less comfortable with the man's proximity. Demonstrating a blade-move with his own foil, his left hand slid gradually up her side from hip to just below her breast.

Mycroft pulled himself slowly upright, his eyes narrow and grim. Outraged to see Cate being mauled by this nonentity, his mood had crossed the river of quiet fury and was headed up the banks of wrath. It would not do.

Lestrade sensed a change in Mycroft. Something was going to happen and, having an idea of the Holmes boys, he knew it wouldn't be anything good.

"I think I'll just go have a little chat with our French guest, shall I?" he said. "Possibly arrange a swift deportation order," Lestrade checked Mycroft's face. "Or a hospital bed."

Cate was annoyed. What had seemed mildly amusing minutes earlier had turned unpleasant. She wanted no more of it. Laurant was becoming increasingly irritating.

"_Stop_," she said.

"But look," Laurant nodded, "he is mad for you."

Unable to resist looking, Cate saw the expression on Mycroft's face. As black as thunder. "I must go," she said.

Laurant was having none of it. "_Foolish_," he said. "And you are learning this so quickly."

"I'm leaving, Monsieur Laurant," she said. "Thank you for your time."

"But, no," Laurant moved to slide his arm around her waist again, only to have it prodded by the steel ferrule of a Malacca-handled umbrella.

"I believe the lady wishes to leave," Mycroft said, his voice glacial.

Insulted, Laurant stepped back, unleashing an outburst of voluble French at them both. Cate took a deep breath.

Laurant took another step back and recklessly raised the tip of his foil.

Mycroft gripped his umbrella more tightly.

Cate suddenly felt rather cross. _Men_. Throwing her own foil to the ground, she stepped between Laurant and Mycroft, her arms wide. The tip of Laurant's sword mere inches from her padded jacket, she brushed it away in annoyance.

In unambiguous and somewhat carrying, Parisian French, Cate informed Laurant, in words of rarely more than two syllables, precisely what she thought of his manners, his teaching ability, his lack of personal attractiveness, his parentage and his place in modern society.

Pointing dismissively to his foil, "And if you ever wave that at me or anyone in my family again," she warned, "you will regret it. You _silly_ man."

Removing the gloves he had given her, Cate dropped them indifferently at his feet. "Compliments of the academy." Collecting her jacket and bag, she turned steadily to Mycroft.

"Will you take me home please?"

###

Mycroft made tea while she changed. He felt the most remarkable calm: the lightest puff of air would be a hurricane beside his sense of peace. Watching the tea steep, a warmth rose up inside his chest. It was good. Things were good.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Cate apologised. "I have no idea what got into the man."

"Gallic passion, perhaps," Mycroft poured the tea, handing her a cup. "What was it you called him?" He thought. "Ah yes. 'Arse-brained, low-lifed, sorry, self-centred, son-of-a-bitch?'" Mycroft nodded. "Impressive."

Cate was still waiting for the other boot to drop. "How have you been?" she asked, looking him over.

Mycroft faced her squarely. "Do you really need to ask?" he said. "It's been miserable, and the reason it's been miserable is because you won't see what's right before your eyes."

Here came the other boot. "Please don't scold me," she said. "I'm not sure I could bear it right now."

He sipped his tea. "_Family_?"

Cate swallowed. She grew warm. Her muscles tensed. "My poor French," she said.

"Your French is perfect," he refused her an easy way out. "As is mine."

Cate looked down and heaved a weary sigh.

Mycroft reached for her hands. "Cate," he said, softly. "You love me."

Suddenly panicky, she looked into his face. "I don't know. I've never been in love with anyone," she shook her head.

"Yet you are in love with me," Mycroft smiled.

"I don't think …"

"Cate," he pulled her closer. "Tell me you don't love me."

Silent, she looked anywhere but his eyes. "I can't say that."

Mycroft felt a spiral of triumph twist through him.

"Then tell me you love me."

"I'm not sure I can do that either," her words were slow, difficult. "You ask too much of me."

"I ask for nothing more than you are," he was grave. "Give me what you are."

"I can't," Cate agonised. "I don't know how to do that, without letting go of everything … I'm not brave enough." _I can't do this._

"You're fearless," Mycroft rested his face in her hair. "Your life is one daring thing after another," he paused. "Trust me not to hurt you, Cate."

"I don't know how to do that," her words were a sigh. _I can't._

He stood for a moment, looking. Then he leaned down and kissed her. The kiss was cool and almost without passion: a statement of intent.

Cate held herself away from him, staring into eyes that were calm yet evaluating. "You can't simply kiss people and expect them to fall in a heap because it's the great Mycroft Holmes," a chiding protest. _Unfair_._ I can't …_

"Not people, you," Mycroft dipped his head to her level. "Give in, Cate," he said, kissing her again. It was slower than the first, lingering, with a promise of heat.

"I am not some naïve underling to be bowled over by your charm," her voice was husky and low, but she stood firm. _I can't …_

"A fact for which I am extraordinarily grateful," Mycroft drew her close. "Give in, Cate," he murmured, kissing her a third time. Making no attempt to disguise his emotion, need or desire, Mycroft's encircling arms pulled her closer still. "Give in to _me_, Cate," he whispered.

There was nowhere left to run.

With a shiver of inevitability, Cate Adin finally let loose her world and her life and her heart for Mycroft Holmes.

###

It was a strange feeling. In the darkened room, Mycroft lay back against the heaped pillows, looking at his life through internal eyes. In a matter of scant months, his entire _raison d'être_ had migrated from one plane of existence to another. Unexpected, certainly unplanned, his connection to Cate Adin – no – his _love_ for her, had changed everything. What had been concrete and solid was now unclear and nebulous. Curiously, he did not feel terribly concerned over this: although he felt he should. Surely there must be some anxiety stemming from a re-prioritisation of virtually everything in his life?

Turning his head, Mycroft made out the darker shadow in the bed that was Cate, her fingers curled loosely at his side. He lifted her hand and placed it on his bare skin so she would know, even in her sleep, the location of his heart.

###

Michael Stenton sat in the near-dark of a sordid little hotel room in Soho. Music from a questionable nightclub next door pounded through the walls as he poured another measure of bourbon into a dirty glass. He needed a shave, but the call of alcohol was louder than personal grooming right now.

His entire hand throbbed painfully. Severing his finger, though a desperate measure, had seemed a reasonable one at the time, and it may have earned him a couple of extra days respite from the hunt, but in the end, all the damage he'd managed to contrive; all the problems and difficulties he'd thrown in Mycroft's way – all these had come to nothing. Not even the major disruption of the _Bradshaw_ operation, or the potential upset with the Americans and Russians had achieved his goal. Stenton stared down at his mutilated hand with the bitterest self-loathing and pity. Everything was ruined now. Nothing left to salvage, not his past and certainly not the possibility of any future he'd welcome.

Stenton, not that that was even his real name – he didn't know his real name: Marie Stenton had only told him of his true genesis when she was in her last hospital bed, and had died the following morning before the information even had a chance to sink in. A smuggled baby; the living detritus of a Soviet disaster. He smiled crookedly: the only connection he had to that past was his name. _Michelenko_ had become Michael. He deserved more than a bastardised name of some unknown, unimportant peasant family in the Ukraine. He had earned it. He had spent more than seven years earning it, every damn day beneath the acid examination of bloody Mycroft Holmes. He threw the whisky back, a sour taste burning its way down his throat.

God knows, he had tried: done everything, gone anywhere, asked for nothing, but no … nothing would do but _perfection_. Seven years and what did he have for it? Stenton looked around the room. He had nothing. He looked at his hand, no, _less_ than nothing.

There was little more damage he could do to himself: the pitch was queered and from this place, he could think of only one option, only one way from here. There was really only this final idea. It was dramatic, and it should be: it would be his last.

###

He sat with a newspaper on one of Cate's sofas as she walked in, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"I need your help," she said.

Looking up, "Of course. With what?"

"Improving my vocabulary," she pulled a small piece of white paper from her pocket. "There are one or two words I'm having a problem with," she raised her eyebrows and sighed.

"Such as?"

"Well, this one," she held out the paper, Mycroft took it. It read simply '_Darling_' with a brief definition. Looking back at her, he smiled. This was one of her little games. He smiled some more.

"And you need help with this … how, precisely?" he asked, his expression carefully neutral.

"I need to learn how to use it in context," she took his newspaper away and dropped it on the floor.

"I _was_ reading that," Mycroft observed.

"Not anymore." Cate's smile was wilful. Standing over him, she pushed Mycroft back until he lay supine. Straddling his thighs, Cate kept him there with the weight of her body.

Reading the word carefully, Cate looked thoughtfully at Mycroft's face. "Darling," she read. "One who is dear to another, one who is dearly loved." She nodded to herself. "Okay. Got that," leaning over him, her expression changed. "Now the context."

Setting her hands on either side of Mycroft to hold her weight, she kissed the point of his jaw with the softest of touches. "Darling Mycroft," she murmured. She kissed beneath his left ear. "My darling Mycroft," the merest whisper. The faintest brush of his lips with her own. "I love you, darling Mycroft."

The first kiss had tickled, but by the third, Mycroft felt a little warm. Cate's voice and touch and the feel of her so close …

"Very good," he muttered. "I believe you have successfully grasped that particular signifier. Well done."

"Oh, but there's more," Cate sat back, innocent.

"How many more?" Mycroft felt a stab of concern.

Bringing out an entire handful of the white scraps of paper, Cate grinned. "One for every letter of the alphabet."

He was going to die.

"X?" Mycroft sounded strained.

"_X-rated_, of course", Cate leaned forward again, whispering, "You'll like that one."

"_Oh God_," Mycroft groaned quietly. "I'll not make it beyond 'L'"

"_Adore_," Cate looked at the next paper. "To regard with the utmost esteem. _Hmm_." She leaned forward again. "Let's see," she paused, thinking. "I adore you," she spoke so softly, Mycroft barely heard. "I adore everything about you, Mycroft Holmes," Cate whispered against his throat, kissing his skin in passing.

Mycroft realised there was almost no chance of him surviving this assault.

"This," he said, his words an effort, "this is your revenge for all the affronts and offences I may have caused you over the last several months?"

Cate smiled enigmatically.

"A slow and tortuous death?" Mycroft inhaled deeply. "Then do your worst," he said nobly. "Name, rank and serial number is all you'll get."

Crushing a quake of laughter, Cate raised a single eyebrow in fine dramatic fashion.

"_So, Meester Holmes_," she purred in the worst Russian accent she could produce, "_I see you haff not yet learned to fear my powers of persuasion_," Cate brought her lips to Mycroft's. "_But soon, you will be laffink on ze side of your face zat iz ozzer_."

Torn between succumbing to her playfulness or maintaining his gravitas, Mycroft wanted to see what Cate had planned for the rest of the alphabet, but genuinely doubted his ability to lie back and think of England. He would do his best. British to the end, Mycroft comforted himself that it would be an honourable death. The General would have been proud.

"_Beloved_," Cate looked for the definition. "Greatly loved and dear to the heart," she paused again. Looking into Mycroft's eyes, Cate watched as his focus met her own. "You are very dear to my heart, beloved Mycroft," she kissed him softly, tormentingly. He groaned again.

"You like that one?" Cate took in his closed eyes and slightly rigid expression. "Beloved man," she whispered, kissing his throat. "My beloved Mycroft," she trailed her mouth down to his collar. He swallowed.

"Tie's a little tight," he muttered.

"Allow me," she grinned, carefully loosening his tie and undoing his collar-button. Thinking, Cate also undid the next two.

"Better?" she asked, her fingertips tracing random arabesques over warm skin.

Eyes still closed, Mycroft nodded, preferring not to give himself away by speaking. Assuming he could still speak.

"Then, _beloved_ Mycroft," Cate breathed against him, "I shall continue." Turning his head gently to one side, she exposed the long rigid line of muscle running from beneath his ear to his chest. Gently biting her way down the softness of his skin, feeling the bristles of coarser hair beneath his shave, Cate luxuriated in the taste and sense of him. Close enough to be a part of him, she hummed against the pulse in his neck. Mycroft hissed, arching his shoulders at the intensity of the sensation. His fingers dug against the leather of the sofa and for a second, he struggled to breathe. It was torture. It was exquisite.

"You are going to kill me," his words were forced. "Think of the scandal."

Cate looked amused. "You're tougher than you imagine," she said, stroking his lips with a fingertip. She pulled out another paper.

Oh, good Lord, she was serious.

"_Cherish_," she read. "To treat with tenderness and affection." Fixing him with a curious look, she tilted her head. "Do you want to be cherished, I wonder?" she asked. Leaning down and resting her face against his shoulder, Cate felt his arms slide up around her.

"I would adore to be cherished by you," his voice was rough. "I would feel cheated if you didn't."

"Darling Mycroft," Cate's throat was suddenly tight.

"You've already done 'darling'," he said, "what's the 'E' stand for?"

"_Erotic_," Cate choked into his chest, her laughter shaking them both.

Mycroft wondered idly what his epitaph would say.

###

_Perfect_, he thought. The place was perfect.

Far enough away from anywhere to raise suspicion; big enough to do some real damage; remote from help of any kind.

Screams wouldn't carry beyond these walls.

Holding his injured hand to his chest, Michael Stenton made his final plans. There was no chance for Mycroft to avoid this. He almost laughed.

###

Saturday morning, the dawn was still new. Mycroft was awake, lying next to Cate, watching her sleep. He felt peaceful and comfortable. He waited. He knew now that the first sign of awakening was a slow stretch of her neck usually accompanied by a gentle sigh. Then she would blink once or twice, and then …

"Good morning," he said, as her eyes focused on him. She smiled sleepily and wriggled over to rest against his chest. It had become something of a routine and pleased them both.

"What are your plans for today?" he asked, his fingers stroking the hair from her face.

"No plans," Cate mumbled drowsily. "No work, no errands, no plans. Want to be a potato."

Mycroft smiled again." A couch-potato?" he asked, idly playing with the silk-fine strands.

"Not fussy what sort," Cate buried her face against his throat, yawning. "Any kind of vegetable would do, really."

Mycroft enjoyed the moment.

"Are you awake yet?" he asked, a velvet edge to his voice. It was that, rather than the question, that made Cate lean back to look at him.

"Why," she said. "What's the matter?"

Reaching behind him on the bedside table, Mycroft brought back a box: a rather small, square box. He opened it and rested it on the pillow between them.

A brilliant white diamond in an old European cut, with an oblong diamond on either side. The most beautiful 1930's Art Deco platinum. Cate inhaled slowly: Mycroft was capitalising on her deep admiration of both the style and the material.

"Marry me," Mycroft's finger stroked the side of her face. "Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove," he murmured, quoting Marlowe with an ease Cate had no idea he possessed.

"It's breath-taking," she whispered, suddenly awake. "Stunning." Lifting the box, Cate turned to lie on her back the better to see all the details. "It's fabulous."

He looked at her intently. "I love you," he added. "Marry me."

Cate was still staring at the ring, how the facets glinted in the early light. Mycroft took the box from her, removed the ring and, taking her left hand, slid the ring onto the appropriate digit. It settled against her pale skin as if bespoke. The act of placing it on Cate's finger gave Mycroft a quick rush of pleasure.

"Marry me," he watched her face, gauging her reaction.

"I love you," Cate said, slowly. "We both know that."

He sensed a 'but'.

"And this is an unbelievably beautiful ring."

A _large_ 'but'.

"But do we really need the formality of an antiquated tradition?"

And there it was.

"You like tradition," Mycroft observed.

"I like _some_ traditional things," Cate corrected. "Those with a purpose."

"And you don't like the tradition of marriage?"

"I find it an unnecessary appendage to a contemporary relationship," she looked at the ring. It really was lovely.

Mycroft lay back with a sigh. He had been reasonably confident she would say 'yes' this time. "Then what are we to do?" he asked. "I want us to live together."

Cate's stomach swooped. "You want to live with me?" she said quietly.

He turned on his side, his head resting in his hand. "Of course I do," he said. "The idea of being with you every day is one I am unwilling to put off any longer." He paused. "Assuming," he looked at her, "that you want to live with me?"

"I'd be very happy living with you," Cate's eyes crinkled. "But we don't have to be married to do that," she rolled to face him.

"I never imagined I'd hear myself say this," Mycroft took a deep breath, "but I think I rather want to be married to you."

"Then we have a 'situation' as you call them," Cate slid the ring reluctantly off her finger and back into the box. "Because the idea of a formal marriage feels counter-intuitive to me."

Balancing the box on Mycroft's side, she smiled a little hesitantly. "Do you still want to live with me?"

He looked into her reflective brown eyes and saw nothing but affection and trust.

"You realise I'm not going to give up on this, don't you?" He put the box away. "I shall wear you down, and one day," he kissed her throat, "one day, you'll say 'yes'."

"In a thousand _thousand_ years, perhaps," she smiled as his hands pulled her closer.

"Start the clock," he murmured.

###

_Something with lobster_, was the idea filling the cooking part of her brain. Cate had been returning to a desire of something with lobster for over a week, but she'd yet to find an idea that hadn't been done to death. Primavera? _Newburg_? Perhaps she should see what they had fresh at the local market and simply go with the flow. This was why she was currently walking around with a basket containing leeks, a large frozen, but uncooked lobster, fresh Dill and the tiniest freshest baby carrots ever pulled from the ground.

Now she needed a coffee. With a yen for the stuff that would fell trees, Cate looked for the nearest decent coffee-shop. The one across the road from the park smelled quite reasonable, and she could sit outside and enjoy both the pale sun and the fragrance of growing things.

Ordering inside, she found a table in the sun and sat back, relaxed, happy, smiling. Her life seemed to be one big fun adventure at the moment: work was under control; Mycroft was being rather wonderful and everything felt just … good.

Sipping her espresso, Cate closed her eyes and luxuriated in the feel of the sun on her face. She felt something hard poke into the back of her ribs.

"No fuss, please," the voice was quiet and sounded very much under control. "Let's just stand up slowly and take a little walk, shall we?"

Turning her head to see the owner of the voice, Cate saw a youngish man, close to her own age, light-haired, fair-skinned. His voice was educated and soft. She sought his eyes. _Ah_. His eyes were dark and dead. Not good.

"And what will you do if I scream?" Cate turned her head even more.

"Doubt if you'll scream after this," the man smiled grimly as he slid a fine needle into the now-exposed part of her neck. Cate jerked in annoyance and fear. He had wanted her to turn … suddenly feeling dizzy and unwell, she vaguely heard the man calling her 'sister' and pulling her towards a black Porche four-by-four parked at the roadside. Almost falling into the rear seat, Cate knew little else.

###

Mycroft's Blackberry bleeped its activation at the incoming call. Wondering if it might be Cate about dinner, Mycroft smiled in anticipation: she so dearly enjoyed making a production of their evening meal when she was cooking.

"Hello, _Mycroft_," the voice, instantly recognisable, oozed confidence and its usual charm. _Stenton_. Suddenly, the remaining pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Everything that had seemed unconnected now made sense. All the security problems; the compromised networks, the deaths. Clearly alive and kicking, Stenton's continued existence on this earth told Mycroft everything he needed to know about his travails of the last six months.

"_Stenton_. Not dead yet?" with a press of a button, Mycroft alerted Special Branch to trace the incoming call.

"Always so very _droll_, Mycroft," Stenton sounded anything but amused.

"To what do I owe the pleasure ..?"

"You owe me a great deal more than pleasure," Michael Stenton's voice dropped to a low whisper: cold, vitriolic. "And you will pay in measures other than simple currency."

Mycroft felt a brief stab of disquiet. Regardless of the 'why' in all this, he had, in fact, trained Stenton personally. If threats were made, it would be with genuine ability and power.

"What do you want, Stenton?" he asked.

"I want you to suffer in the same way I have suffered all these years," Stenton's voice sounded a little manic. "All the frustration and the hopeless waiting," he added. "Now you'll enjoy what I enjoyed, but in a somewhat condensed form."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mycroft was texting Sherlock and Lestrade as he spoke. "Speak plainly and have done with it, man."

"I have your woman, Holmes," Stenton laughed softly. "I have her and I'm going to hurt her. Is that sufficiently plain for you?"

The phone went dead.

Mycroft's heart thudded in his ears. _Jesus Christ._ _Cate_. He did the only thing he could do now: he called for help.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter Ten:**_

_Lestrade – Cate – John – Sherlock – Stenton – Mycroft – The Sound of a Gun – A Sitting Duck – Death-Trap – Now You Lose Everything – The Distant Sound of Thunder – People Will Think We're Related – Immediately Means Now – Sixty Percent Higher – A Matter of Expediency – The Minor Things – Twelve Reasons – Swahili Love Song. _

#

#

Greg Lestrade answered his mobile. _Mycroft_.

"Yes?"

"Stenton is alive, Inspector," the words harsh with unspoken consequence. "You will have the address momentarily."

"_And_?" Not sure he wanted to, Lestrade asked anyway.

"He has Cate."

"Right." Lestrade got the message.

###

Cate surfaced slowly. She felt dizzy and sick. Her head pounded and her mouth felt like she'd eaten mouldy bread. She was sitting on something hard and cold: chilly, like stone, but flatter, like the floor of a house. The cold seeped into her bones and she wanted somewhere to lie and sleep.

"Wake up," a vaguely remembered voice. She opened her eyes a fraction. "Wake UP!" a stinging slap shocked her closer to alertness. She remembered.

"Okay, _okay_," she muttered thickly. "Awake, here. What do you want?"

"I want you to sing for me," Stenton smiled.

"Bloody maniac," Cate briefly closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall for support.

Pulling a small Taser from his pocket, Stenton waved it in her face. "Want me to use this?" he giggled. Cate closed her eyes again.

"_Sing_," the man snarled, grabbing her jacket and slamming her head against the concrete. Cate shrieked as the side of her face seared in pain. Something trickled down her cheek.

"_Mycroft_," the only word she could think through the hurt.

###

"It was traced to the corner of Denby and Wallace Streets," Mycroft snapped. "It's the site of an old hospital due for demolition this afternoon. I'm having the demolition company contacted as we speak. The police are enroute."

"Sherlock and I can get there faster," John sounded soldierly. "What do you want us to do if we find Stenton? Kill him?"

Mycroft's voice was savage. "You don't kill a rabid dog, John," his words pitiless. "You put it down."

"_Understood_."

###

Sherlock and John left the cab back at the main road and ran towards the demolition site's main gate. An old hospital of no more than eight levels, the building had already received the attention of industrial scavengers. It was skeletal and ready to fall. The high, barb-wired security fence was too lofty to scale, and, as the explosive charges had already been emplaced, and the detonators connected and deployed, a live security detail, with dogs, was holding the place secure until the actual detonation.

"It's too big. Once we're inside, we're going to have to split up," Sherlock was watching for any sign of the guards as he attended to the gate's several massive padlocks and chains. The leashed dogs would be with them, but he wanted to get into the building unseen and unreported. Stenton was in there somewhere, and Cate was with him. Hopefully, she was still alive. Sherlock wanted no warning to be given.

Levering the gate open just enough to slide through, they pushed it closed behind them and ran swiftly across to the gaping maw of the old entrance.

"I'll go left," John nodded. "See you at the top."

"Do you have your gun?"

Tapping the side of his jacket, John smiled grimly. They headed off through the jumbled of jagged concrete and dangling yellow cables.

There was an hour left until the scheduled detonation.

###

Michael Stenton watched as Cate once again regained consciousness. The bruise on the side of her face was bloodied and already darkening. She looked awkward with her hands bound, but she was also silent. He didn't want her silent. He wanted to hear her scream before she died.

And she _was_ going to die. If he was feeling generous, maybe he'd nick one of her arteries long enough before the big bang so that she'd be barely aware of the crushing tons of fragmented concrete and steel. Or maybe not. The idea, after all, was to make Holmes _pay_. And if Mycroft was untouchable, then eradicating his woman as painfully as possible was at least a first instalment.

Walking over to Cate, he squatted in front of her, forcing her face up with the barrel of his gun. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes. He wanted to have her beg. He pulled out his phone and called a number.

"Ah, hello _again_, Mycroft!" Stenton was pleased to continue his taunts. "I have someone here who wants to talk to you." He held the phone out to her. "Tell Mycroft if he gives himself up, I'll let you go," he instructed.

Cate stared at the man, then closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. "Go to hell," she muttered.

Raising the gun, Stenton raked it brutally across her face, causing her involuntary cry.

"Tell Mycroft he can still save you," the gun was ready for another strike. Cate knew he was going to kill her.

"Go to hell _you_ _bastard_," she spat, lifting her arms in defence.

Stenton shook his head, a cruel smile on his face. Cocking the gun, he shot her.

###

When he heard Stenton's voice on his phone, Mycroft knew what help he could summon was already on the way. He would be there himself in less than fifteen minutes. If he could keep the man distracted long enough …

And then the words Stenton was saying became clear. He heard him instructing Cate to say what she'd never say; he heard her response and her cry; he listened in awful disbelief as Stenton repeated the instruction and then … Cate's furious retort and the sound of gunfire.

His phone went dead and Mycroft felt himself grow cold. So very cold.

###

The gunshot echoed round and around the empty hallways and corridors of the condemned building. Though at different points, both John and Sherlock began to converge on the sound. Sherlock hoped the gunshot did not mean what he anticipated. He already knew how Cate's death would affect Mycroft.

Running swiftly and silently, the two men converged on the seventh floor. Sherlock arrived first, slowing his headlong dash as he saw Stenton ahead. It was too late to attempt concealment: he had been seen. He hoped John would have better luck.

"And the younger Holmes! Welcome!" Stenton beckoned him closer. With the briefest of glances, Sherlock saw Cate huddled in a corner. She looked beaten and blood-spattered, but alive; a gunshot to the upper arm. Painful, but not immediately life-threatening. Though not prone to mawkish feelings of sentiment, Sherlock felt vaguely pleased by this.

"So, Stenton," he said, hands in pockets, a nonchalant expression on his face. "See you prefer the ones who can't fight back," his look was pitying.

"Don't even try to get me angry, Sherlock Holmes," Stenton waved his gun. "Now that I have the both of you, Mycroft will understand the real meaning of suffering."

"Oh, dear God," Sherlock was nothing if not scornful. "Can you actually hear yourself?" he asked. "You sound like something out of a B-grade 1940's Hollywood horror film," he sighed. "_Pathetic_."

Stenton raised his gun. "Don't push your luck, Holmes," he said. "I've got your brother's girlfriend, and now I've got you too," Stenton smiled again. "I'm going to kill the both of you, and we'll see how Mycroft feels about that."

"My brother asked me to come here," Sherlock said. "He is fully aware of your violent proclivities. Do you really imagine he hasn't foreseen every possible outcome of this scenario?"

Stenton hesitated. It was what Mycroft Holmes would do. He'd have little compunction about sending anyone to their death if he felt it was necessary. But still: he had them and Mycroft did not. And now they would both die.

At that second, John's announced arrival bounced off the bare concrete walls and echoed through the space. "Put the gun down, Stenton," his voice was steady. "Or I _will_ shoot you."

Stenton pointed the gun directly at Sherlock's heart. "Not before I kill at least one of them," he retorted. "And right now, Mycroft's brother is a sitting duck."

"Shoot him, John." Sherlock's voice was detached.

As Stenton realised his play was being called, he began to squeeze the pistol's trigger. In the briefest of spaces between commission and completion, Sherlock had thrown himself to one side, away from the impending shot. Turning next to Cate, Stenton was about to fire when a round from John's Browning took him in the side. He fell.

Kicking Stenton's gun away, John's next thought was to see to Cate. He checked her wounds and pulled her jacket open to see where Stenton's bullet had struck.

Sherlock turned to see if the man was dead yet, only to discover a patch of blood and little else.

"Which way did he go?"

"Dunno," John still focused on Cate. She seemed very groggy, concussed by the look of it. "Didn't see him move."

"Here, let me," Sherlock stepped in and lifted Cate into his arms. "You scout ahead to make sure we have no surprises from Mycroft's unpleasant associate, and I'll get the Professor out of here."

"Right." John said, gun in hand, he backtracked. He quite hoped they'd meet Stenton.

###

A swarm of Met squad cars, the Special Firearms Unit and Mycroft's Jaguar arrived virtually simultaneously.

"Halt the demolition," Mycroft instructed. "There are still people in there."

Lestrade strode up. "Anything new?"

"Michael Stenton," Mycroft nodded sourly. "The man I'd been grooming as my second for several years, who clearly felt it was several years too long."

"_And_?"

"Cate, and now Sherlock and John are in there too," Mycroft ran a hand over his face and looked incredibly drained. "I want them all out immediately." He stared at the crumbling structure, rigged to blow. "It's a death-trap."

###

Stenton was bleeding badly. Watson's bullet was still inside him and he felt a curious and spreading chill; blood leaking out of him with every step. Plainly, he didn't have long. But still time enough to leave a suitable farewell gift.

Staggering to the main junction of cables in the centre of the floor, Stenton prepared to blow everything to hell. If the top two floors went, the rest would follow. Simple mechanics. And he knew exactly how to set off the top two floors. Dropping to his knees, Stenton fished the junction box from his pocket. It took only two wires: one in, one out, to set up a basic firing circuit. All it needed was an electronic spark. He extracted the Taser, connecting its battery to the junction box. Even though this had not ended the way he had planned, he commiserated himself with the fact that Mycroft would lose everything. _Everything_.

He pressed the firing button.

###

They had almost made it. At breakneck speed, Sherlock had run behind John with a semi-conscious Cate in his arms. John was able to run faster and had reached the main entrance first.

"The Cavalry's arrived," he stepped outside and waved.

There was a distant sound of … thunder?

_The top of the building exploded_.

Instant chaos, as vast slabs of steel-barred concrete came flying off in all directions. John was thrown some distance by the shock wave, but he was still able to turn and see, still several yards inside, his best friend and the woman he was holding vanish into a whirling cloud of debris and airborne death.

With an increasing rumble and roar, the remainder of the building began a series of uncontrolled explosion and collapse as an erratic domino effect set off the remaining charges.

Managing to half-crawl, half-fall away from the worst of the blast, John crouched on the bare, muddy ground and watched, his own danger unheeded, as the old hospital claimed another two souls.

###

Mycroft's anxiety lifted the second he saw John Watson come running out of the entrance. Turning back, John had shouted something to – Sherlock? – inside, and then the world had turned ballistic.

In what was a mere moment, the top floor and then the rest of the building had detonated. Great shards of concrete; pillars of flame and a pyroclastic bloom enveloped the entire structure. It took only seconds.

When the noise stopped and the air partly cleared, Mycroft could just make out John's figure kneeling in the mud a matter of feet away from the nearest wedge of debris. Reaching his side, Mycroft asked the unaskable question. "Sherlock? Cate?"

Turning, the horror in John's eyes said what there was to say. Mycroft felt his spine being wrenched out as if by some giant hand. His spine and his heart.

###

Two hours later, they found what was left of Stenton's body beneath a large chunk of unbroken wall. He was crushed and bloody, and had clearly still been alive when the explosion occurred. His death barely registered with either Mycroft or John who were both leaning against the Jaguar, neither of them yet prepared to accept … the other.

Lestrade walked over, the drag in his step shouting his disbelief the situation was even possible.

"The emergency crews say they'll probably be working through the night," he said. "There's not much point staying here – they'll call you as soon as they … have news."

Mycroft didn't look up. "I shall stay," his words were flat, toneless.

John nodded agreement. "Me too."

Another two hours passed as the afternoon sun began to drop. John and Mycroft stood by the car, silent and unmoving.

A dog barked.

Lost in a private nightmare, Mycroft caught the sound only in the most peripheral of senses. He lifted his head. The dog barked again

Shouting. He heard _shouting_. Placing a hand on John's arm, Mycroft moved for the first time in an age. The searchers had found … something.

"John," Mycroft's voice was cracked and parched.

"I heard," John sounded even worse.

More shouting. Louder barking. The shouting sounded … _celebratory_?

"_John_," Mycroft began walking towards the noise.

From out among the orange and yellow high-vis jackets, a tall dark figure plodded slowly forward, coated in powdery dust and smeared with blood. In his arms he cradled another form: limp, but not lifeless.

_Dear God_. Mycroft was as close to tears as he had ever been in his adult life. He strode across the flattened expanse of clay and, using one hand to help support Cate, he gripped Sherlock's shoulder tightly with the other. The hand shook.

"Steady on, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered feebly. "People will think we're related."

The paramedics lifted Cate carefully away, taking her to one ambulance and Sherlock and John to another. Mycroft was torn.

"Go to Cate," Sherlock waved him away. "I have a doctor to look after me, don't forget."

"We'll speak later," Mycroft spun on his heel and barely avoided breaking into a run.

One of the Paramedics barred his progress. "_Husband_," he snapped, manoeuvring deftly into the ambulance.

Cate was a mess. Barely conscious, her face was badly bruised, with dried blood in her hair and down her neck; blood from a deep cut over the right eye glued it shut; her arm was livid with a gunshot wound and she, like Sherlock, was coated entirely in grey dust.

"_Mycroft_," she mumbled, fingers reaching out. "Where's Sherlock? Is he alright? Is John safe?"

"Everyone is safe, darling Cate," he caught her hand tight, as he instructed the Paramedic driver that both Cate and his brother were to be taken to University College Hospital. The ambulances were to have the benefit of a police escort. The police would use their sirens. They were to go immediately. Immediately meant _now_.

Looking into the man's eyes, the Paramedic decided questions could wait: he lifted his radio-mike.

###

He had ensured they would be in adjacent private rooms, the easier to see either. Sherlock was only going to stay in overnight, a promise extracted through guile and coercion: Lestrade refused to allow Sherlock anywhere near another case-file until the doctors gave him the all-clear from concussion.

"No discussion, Sherlock," the tall policeman was adamant. "We've been down this road before, and this time," Lestrade smiled at the reversal of fortunes, "this time you'll have to wait for me."

"Insufferable," the younger Holmes closed his eyes in preparation for a massive sulk. Mycroft entered just at the Inspector was leaving.

"How are you?" he inquired of his brother. "The doctors seem to think there is nothing terribly amiss, _however_," he added as Sherlock brightened, assuming he could abscond. "They want to have you here for observation overnight."

"I am perfectly well, Mycroft," Sherlock folded his arms. "I would have thought the least you might do after John and I saved the day, was to avoid unnecessary red-tape. I do not require a nanny."

"You may do precisely as you please," Mycroft was complacent, "first thing in the morning."

Sherlock considered his options. Mycroft seemed determined, although there were always ways around even the worst of his dictats. Dealing with a thundering headache caused by a flying chunk of masonry, Sherlock's heart wasn't in an argument. He just wanted the throbbing pain to desist. "Stairwell," he muttered.

Mycroft nodded. "Basement car park?"

Rubbing his temple, Sherlock nodded. "The place was built when sixty percent higher concrete density was still used," he paused, thinking. "How's Cate?"

"Unconscious," Mycroft frowned. "She's had enough morphine to sink the Bismarck."

"And you are holding up?" Sherlock analysed his sibling's expression. Meeting Sherlock's eyes, Mycroft saw his brother knew exactly how he was.

"Apart from dealing with Stenton," he said, "I want to thank you for saving Cate's life," he added, carefully. "Had she … had anything happened to her, I'm not sure what I would have done."

This was new territory for both of them. Neither man accustomed to acknowledging, let alone discussing personal sensitivities. Mycroft felt he had no real choice now: once he had taken the plunge into transparency with Cate, it seemed both derisible and false to cling to a lack of the same with his brother. Sherlock might not be comfortable with it, but that was another issue.

"I am in love with her," Mycroft spoke softly.

"I know," Sherlock's reply was equally quiet.

###

"And how are you feeling now, Mrs Holmes?" the nurse drew back the curtains and opened the blinds sufficiently to see by.

Cate levered herself awkwardly up the bed. Her right arm was bandaged up to her chest, and the slightest movement of her head made it pound. _Wait a minute_ …

"Mrs Holmes?" she squinted blearily in the daylight.

"Your husband has been in and out of here a dozen times since you were admitted," the nurse began taking her observations.

"_Husband_?"

The nurse looked concerned. "Your husband. Tall, dark and handsome?"

"_My_ husband?"

Giving Cate an odd look, she checked temperature, blood-pressure. Noting medication intake and instructions as well as fluid balance, the nurse looked at her again.

"What year is this?"

"2012."

"Where are you?"

Cate tried to shrug then wished she hadn't. Everything _hurt_. "I have no idea other than probably London," she said sluggishly. "Where am I?"

"In your own university hospital," Mycroft swept into the room and over to her side. Gently taking her free hand, he pressed a light kiss to the palm. "How are you feeling, my darling?"

The nurse smiled at them both. "This husband," she pointed her pen at Mycroft.

"Oh, _this_ husband," Cate nodded fractionally. "I lose track." She held onto him as the nurse completed her obs and left them alone.

"Husband?" It ached too much to smile.

"A matter of expediency," Mycroft perched carefully on the side of the bed. "Documents to sign, admissions to complete, paperwork …"

"_Ah_," Cate sighed and lay back. "_Expediency_."

He cleared his throat. "And to all intents and purposes, I _am_ acting as your husband in common law," he added, "so there's no real issue to answer, is there?"

Closing her eyes, Cate felt a great weariness creep over her. "I don't mind you being my husband," she mumbled drowsily.

Mycroft saw Cate had drifted back into sleep. With her level of concussion, blood-loss and inevitable shock, he'd been advised this would likely be a result. Sleep was good. Sleep healed. He could look at her bruises and lacerations now without visibly wincing, but it was difficult to see her so injured and not be able to do anything. Every time she flinched, so did he. Husband indeed.

When Cate awoke the next time, she thought at first she was in a flower shop – the perfume of Gardenia was all around her. Peering across the dimmed room, she counted no less than three vases of her favourite blooms. Smiling, she slept again.

She dreamed of Deepdene in the summer. Picnics and Edwardian dresses and croquet hoops. She dreamed of Mycroft. His way of looking at life, of looking at her. His eyes. His kisses. She slept on.

It was bright daylight the next time she woke. Afternoon sun streamed between the semi-closed louvres at each window. Blinking without discomfort, Cate touched her face with cautious fingertips: sore but not unbearably so. An improvement, then.

Her stomach realised she was awake and told her she was starving.

"Back with me?" Mycroft's gravelly voice issued from the far corner of the room. Turning her head, Cate saw that he'd been asleep in a large upholstered chair.

"How long have you been here?" Cate paused. "How long have _I _been here?"

He sat and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've been asleep for three days."

"Don't tell me you've been in that chair for three days," she was dismayed. Mycroft smiled for the first time since the explosion: that sounded almost normal.

The same nurse returned. She looked pleased at Cate's enlivened state. "This man has refused to leave your side," she looked approving. "How caring he is."

Torn between a massive urge to eat something and an urgent desire to know what was happening, Cate found she was smiling. "Yes," she nodded, looking directly at Mycroft. "He's a wonderful husband."

He didn't even blink.

Cate's stomach announced it was still waiting. "_Um_, I'm quite hungry," she said. "Is there a chance I could get something to eat?"

"Of course," the nurse handing over a menu. "Chose whatever you want and it'll be brought up." Cate silently thanked the private medical system.

"Mycroft," the print swam in and out of focus. "Could you order me something light please? Seems I'm not up to reading yet."

In moments, he had arranged a meal. He sat on the bed and held her hand again. Just having this small level of touch after nothing for nearly a week felt wonderful.

"How is everything?" Cate rubbed her eyes and realised a shower was going to be essential sooner rather than later. She experimented with her bandaged arm; it felt better. Perhaps she could take the bandages off.

"Everything is fine," Mycroft watched Cate assimilate her situation. Head, face, arm: all the connected bits between. "Are you in pain?"

"Mostly stiff and sore," she said, flexing her arm. "Although this is a little unpleasant." The drip in the back of her hand was annoying. "And _this_ is coming out right away," she prodded the cannula dubiously.

"I feel the medical staff may know a _little_ more about your condition than you do," his expression suggested her opinion was several degrees south of indispensable.

"Mycroft, I am seriously hungry, in dire need of a bath and have slept for a million years," she managed to push herself upright. "Yet I find my brain is working perfectly well. I am quite able to decide what to do."

Mycroft shook his head, a strange smile on his lips. "I had this conversation with Sherlock a few days ago," he leaned close, his words soft. "He did exactly as he was told."

Cate looked into eyes as implacable as a glacier.

"Brute."

"My love," Mycroft held her hand, feeling a great deal happier.

Smiling, Cate lay back. Too weary to argue properly. There were worse places she could have been.

###

It was a conversation unable to be conducted on the phone. Asking Sherlock to meet him at home, Mycroft felt marginally unsettled.

Standing in the kitchen of the town-house, Sherlock noticed the minor things. A small volume of Fanthorpe poems; two knives in juxtaposed slots; the erratic spacing of bar-stools; a single dried Gardenia petal on the windowsill: a faint trace of the flower's perfume lingering in the air. Cate had become a part of Mycroft's life, and, despite the odd private qualm, Sherlock had to admit his sibling was the better for it. Her presence had mediated Mycroft's less delightful qualities without subduing any of his abilities: she disorganised him just enough for balance. Sherlock found he was incongruously pleased with his brother's relationship.

Mycroft knew himself to be irrevocably bound to Cate Adin: emotionally; by infinite desire, and with a strength of need that would break bones. His life was changing because of her. Had already changed. Everything that existed between them went far beyond his ability to control or even channel, and Mycroft felt both the exhilaration of optimism and the bite of uncertainty. The notion of being without her was now so alien; he could not imagine such a reality. He knew what he wanted to do, what he had little choice in pursuing, but could think of no direct method. It was … complex. Mycroft took in a deep breath. There were things Sherlock should be told. Or, being Sherlock, perhaps didn't need to be told.

He turned to his brother and began to say them anyway.

The first time Mycroft paused for breath, Sherlock suggested a plan.

###

Cate stood by the conservatory entrance at the rear of Mycroft's home, watching as the brothers emerged from the kitchen. She wondered what her future was going to be like now that it included them. Smiling, Cate, found it difficult to remember her life as it was before they had met: Mycroft was as much a part of her now as breathing. In the weeks since the explosion, some things just didn't seem as important as they once had. Perhaps it was time, after all.

Sherlock and Mycroft walked past her to stand next to John in the warm light of the big rear windows.

"There only remains the small issue of convincing Cate to be my wife," Mycroft looked mildly concerned, yet not so much that it affected his ability to speak clearly.

"You want her to marry you?" Sherlock looked at him sideways, and added, in similarly carrying tones, "Are you sure?"

"It seems I am captivated and only marriage will do," Mycroft sounded remarkably unworried. "I am unsure however, as to the best course of action."

John turned, frowning.

"_Hello_?" Cate was intrigued. "Why am I suddenly invisible?"

"Will an on-going absence of her as your spouse impact negatively upon your role as HRM's government omniscient?"

Mycroft examined the toes of his shoes. "I fear it may," he said, gloomily.

"Then you must take steps to ensure she marries you," Sherlock looked his brother in the eye. "Before she receives a better offer."

John was lost. "Who should marry whom?" he asked.

"Cate should marry Mycroft," Sherlock nodded, "It seems the appropriate thing to do, although I worry for her mental health should she accept him."

"… and evidently_ mute_," Cate stood in front of them, apparently unnoticed. "What game is this?"

"I have proposed on two separate occasions," Mycroft ignored Cate completely and spoke over her head to Sherlock. "She declined both."

"You asked Cate to marry you?" John was catching up. "That's pretty, er, and she turned you down? _Twice_? Well …"

"I can think of eleven distinct reasons why the Professor should agree to marry you," Sherlock paused, "twelve."

"I realise what you're doing, you know," Cate was suddenly meditative. "And it isn't going to work."

"Did you try bribery?" Sherlock suggested.

"Thought of it, tried it, discarded it," Mycroft answered. "Bribery is ineffective when the individual lacks a sense of covetousness."

"You offered her money?" John looked unsure. "Is that even legal?"

"Nothing as crass as filthy lucre, John," Mycroft looked superior. "Jewels, property, position. None of it worked."

"But it was a nice try," Cate admitted, folding her arms, almost managing to remain straight-faced. "Twelve?"

"Argumentative, though," Sherlock reflected. "Difficult to live with, I'd imagine."

Giving Sherlock a deeply sardonic look, Mycroft sighed. "Difficult to live without, actually." He sounded fatalistic. "Once one has adjusted one's horizons, it becomes an integral element of life."

"You could always try kidnapping," John felt it was time to contribute. "You've done it with just about everyone else."

"_Kidnapping_?" Cate turned on Mycroft. "Is this something you might care to discuss?"

"Kidnapping is such a short-term measure," he wriggled his fingers in distaste. "So inconvenient."

"You share a number of interests," Sherlock turned to Cate, counting on his fingers. "Since you enjoy the culinary arts and Mycroft enjoys eating, it seems a perfect match."

"I am not marrying anyone because they like my cooking," Cate scowled. "This is not 1950."

"How about a threat?" John asked. "You could give her an ultimatum of you or gaol-time."

"I fear John, that the lady would opt for incarceration were I to attempt such a coup."

"Then, of course, there is the fact that whenever Mycroft needs a private translator, you would be perfect for the role, especially as one spouse cannot be forced to give testimony against the other in a court of law." Sherlock held up a second finger.

"Or blackmail," John nodded sagely. "Blackmail's a professional way to go as long as you can find something that does the job, of course."

"It was certainly a consideration at one point, "Mycroft shook his head forlornly, "but when there is nothing worthy of extortion, the idea is moot. Better offer from whom?"

"That's only two," Cate was keeping score.

"Greg Lestrade smiles at her an awful lot." John said. "He's a good bloke. He and Cate would do well together."

"John, I think you're rather missing the point of this exercise," Sherlock muttered.

"Really?" John looked arch.

"The Inspector smiles at you?" Mycroft looked at Cate thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. "Not sure I like that."

"Greg Lestrade is a most pleasant person," Cate agreed. "_Ethical_."

"Three: between you, there is a library worthy of serious perusal, and it would be very useful for me if your sources were to be combined."

"Is that supposed to be a pro or a con?" Cate felt delirious.

"I could always have him transferred somewhere beyond the Capital," Mycroft mused. "Greenland, perhaps."

"Leave the man alone," Cate struggled not to laugh. "_Greenland_."

"Then that only really leaves brute force," John shrugged. "You can borrow my gun if you like."

Mycroft fought down a smile. "Loaded, I assume?"

"There really are a significant number of valid reasons for you to marry my brother, you know," Sherlock looked at Cate and heaved a theatrical sigh. "But the real justification lies in the fact that you are currently holding each other's hands."

Cate and Mycroft looked down simultaneously. Ah.

"I will marry Mycroft because I have decided I want to marry him, and not because of any of this other silliness," Cate said. "So you can stop right now."

Mycroft looked tentative. He coughed. "Did you just agree to marry me?"

Cate reviewed her words. "I believe I did," she said.

"Do you want to marry me?" Mycroft lifted her hand slowly to his lips, his eyes flickering across her face. "A thousand _thousand_ years?"

Cate was light-headed. "In how many languages would you like me to say 'yes'?"

"One would be sufficient," Mycroft's finger stroked the small scar above her brow.

"Then, _Yes_," she was serene. "Marry me."

Mycroft's hand tightened around hers as he turned to Sherlock and John. "Apparently we have a happy announcement," he smiled whimsically, unable for the life of him to avoid it.

"Sister-in-law, Cate." Sherlock raised both eyebrows and kissed her cheek.

"Oh _Lord_," Cate realised, "Brother-in-law, Sherlock."

#

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# Almost The End #

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After deciding what she wanted to move in to Mycroft's town-house, Cate ended up taking over the second lounge at the rear of the house. It held her sofas, her desk and most of her art. Her books and collection of _objet_ were combined with his in the main area at the front. The result was eclectic, but strangely satisfying. Sherlock had approved. Oddly, Mycroft seemed to prefer this room now of all those in the house.

Sunday afternoon. Cate was working at her desk near the back windows, enjoying the warmth of the sun. She felt comfortable in this place. Her place, now.

Mycroft, in casual wear and a cashmere pullover, was stretched out on one of Cate's big sofas reading the paper. Throwing a pile of documents into her bag, she sighed loudly. "Finished."

"Finished with what?" he asked, enmired in international politics.

"Assessing a bunch of PhD proposals," she said, turning to look at him.

"And were they any good?" he asked.

Cate was impressed. Not only was Mycroft digesting detailed information which he would later deride as unmitigated tosh, but was also thinking about being here with her, _and_ maintaining an ability to ask sensible questions about what she was doing.

"One was about a giant squid attacking Crete," she said, testing the notion. "And another discussed using cyanuric acid in an attempt to deal with East Anglia."

The paper lowered slowly to reveal a particularly sceptical expression. "I hardly think cyanuric acid would be successful," he said mildly.

Grinning, Cate walked over. "Budge in," she said, wriggling until she was lying alongside him. Resting her head on his chest, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. Mycroft moved his arm to encircle her shoulders and continued to assault the political columns.

It was all very peaceful and domestic.

Cate looked at Mycroft's face as he read, observing the tiny lines tighten and relax as he saw something especially inane. She felt extremely comfortable.

"Mimi kulipa kuacha kusoma," she murmured "Au kwa matumizi mengine, naweza kupata kitu cha kusoma," she added in a beguiling voice, advising him that if he was going to keep reading then she'd find a book as well.

"And this would be ..?" Mycroft paused his scan of voting reform in Uzbekistan.

"Swahili," Cate snuggled closer. "Je, una nguruwe?"

"Are you planning to continue this monologue while I read?' he asked.

"It's entirely possible," she replied. "Mimi kama watu ambao nguruwe."

Then I may as well appreciate the experience," he said, bringing the paper down around them like a tent. "Continue."

Cate struggled to keep a straight face.

"Mbwa wangu ina kiroboto wote na mange," her words were soft. Apparently her dog was doubly unfortunate, having both fleas and mange. "Lakini yeye ni mbwa nzuri."

Sitting up and looking deep into Mycroft's eyes, she advised him that, despite his misfortune, her dog was a good dog. Cate sighed, stoking along Mycroft's jaw. "Je, una mbwa?" She asked slowly, lacing every syllable with molten desire and wondering if he too had a dog. He cleared his throat and looked at her more intently.

"Would you like me to translate?" She asked, breathing deeply to avoid laughing.

"That would be most helpful," Mycroft's lips were almost touching her neck as the circle of his arms closed a little tighter.

Cate rested her head against his. In the sultriest of voices she inquired whether he was a good pig-keeper as she found pig management an extremely attractive skill.

Beneath her, Cate felt Mycroft's body lurch with silent laughter.

In chocolate velvet tones, Cate further advised him that pig-keeping was a mark of intelligence as pigs were sensible creatures, not usually taken with idiots and fools.

"You are trying to seduce me with a discussion of porcine husbandry in Swahili?" he asked, amused disbelief on his face.

"Absolutely," Cate murmured against his ear, smiling as his breath caught. "Is it working?"

Pinning her slowly beneath his chest, he kissed her in English.

#

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# The End #

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**NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree**

A romance. What is it like to be married to Mycroft Holmes? Romantic interludes, action, adventure, Chess, and unspeakably fiendish goings-on. A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story. You are very kind and your comments are most appreciated.

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